Let's Go Get Lost
by Shooz
Summary: Bucky's on the road with Steve, Sam, and Tony. He thinks they might be running from someone. He thinks it might be his fault. Between Hydra's torture and S.H.I.E.L.D's experimentation, he isn't sure of anything anymore. (Dark humor/kind of shippy/warning for blood, gore, vomit, references to abuse and disordered eating)
1. Breakout

_**Notes** : Welcome to this fic, where the plot is weak and the details don't matter because honestly, I just wanted to write a fun story about road trippin'. If that's your thing…Enjoy. (Very canon-divergent because I'm a nooby casual fan, so don't expect lore accuracy.)_

 **{ 1. Breakout }**

S.H.I.E.L.D probably thought they were doing the world a favor by capturing The Soldier. That by scrubbing Hydra and the military and Steve from his head, they were doing him a favor as well.

Steve didn't see it that way. Not when they had done it all without The Soldier's consent, snatching him away from Steve by force like they knew better than him or some shit. They were no better than Hydra, exploiting his best friend for their own gains.

"He can't be trusted," they told Steve. "This is for his own good. It's for the good of the world."

Fuck that. The negotiations were going nowhere. If Steve wanted his friend back, he had to tear him out of their hands the way S.H.I.E.L.D had torn him away from Steve.

xXxXxXx

" _Road trippin' with my two favorite allies,_

 _We're fully loaded, we got snacks and supplies,_

 _It's time to leave this town, it's time to steal away,_

 _Let's go get lost anywhere in the U.S.A_."

 _-'Road Trippin', Red Hot Chili Peppers_

 _xXxXxXx_

The getaway car was abandoned miles ago. Steve and Sam pushed it off a shrouded embankment and hoofed it through a forest. Bucky followed. He was in questionable shape, but he could do that. Walk and follow Steve. That was about it. His legs came to life some time during the drive, thank Christ, because when they first pulled him off that exam table in the facility, Sam was sure they'd be lugging his 240-pound catatonic ass around on their backs.

Steve led the way with a big yellow flashlight. He periodically glanced at the compass on his wristwatch. They stumbled through ferns and roots in the dark. It was getting cold. Steve and probably Bucky weren't bothered, but Sam was beginning to shiver. He trailed behind Bucky to keep him in his sights, though he doubted he was in any shape—mentally or physically—to slip away from them. He didn't even have shoes on his feet.

Supposedly S.H.I.E.L.D had done a "hard reset", whatever that entailed. Steve sure as hell didn't know, but he knew he didn't like the sound of it. Bucky hadn't said a word since his rescue four hours prior, his eyes hardly focused and he was totally disengaged from his surroundings.

Sam and Steve found him strapped to a table in S.H.I.E.L.D's lab. How long had he been there? What else had they done to him? Steve didn't want to think about it. He'd been bared to the world, skin stitched up along his spine from the crack of his ass to the nape of his neck. His metal arm was gone, leaving a smooth vibranium stump at his shoulder.

Sam couldn't get a reaction from Bucky once they shoved him in the car and took off for the sticks. He was like a dead man breathing until they briefly stopped at a drug store, where they clothed him in black track pants, a grey sweatshirt and a baseball cap.

Technically, _Steve_ clothed him while Sam took his place in the driver's seat. Bucky finally blinked his dry, sticky eyes as Steve pulled his arm through a sleeve, leaving the other to dangle loosely at his side. Steve was saying things like "It's okay," and "You're safe now," and "We got you, Pal."

And then they were moving again, but this time Steve was sitting beside him instead of Sam. Bucky looked at Steve when he spoke, gaze bleary and disoriented but dark brows furrowed as if he was trying to understand, fighting his way out of a daze. He didn't respond, but Steve kept talking to him anyway. He said things like, "I'm sorry," and "We're going to sort this out."

And then Sam said things like, "He's engaging a little, that's good," and "Hope he's walking by the time we step out of this car."

And he was. He was walking behind Steve but in front of Sam, through a forest and stepping over dirt and little sticks and rocks that stung his soles. The pain barely registered. He was wearing an expression now, almost human, not like the vacant stare he'd worn earlier. Sam watched him finally acknowledge his surroundings, watched as his head slowly turned about to examine the towering trunks.

"Almost there," Steve told them. He and Sam were disguised as civilians and his shield was hidden inside his backpack—the one piece of gear he was certain didn't have a tracker somewhere inside. They left their uniforms and Sam's wings in the car, now submerged in stagnant water off the side of a country road. They could be replaced easily enough when all of this was settled. When S.H.I.E.L.D agreed to treat Bucky like a human being.

Until then, they had to get lost.

xXxXxXx

The trio eventually stepped out of the forest and onto another road. Stars twinkled in the black sky above as the flashlight guided them down the neglected asphalt. They walked for two more miles.

Then Bucky collapsed.

"Shit," Sam muttered and lurched forward. He was already pulling Bucky to his feet as Steve turned around, shining the light over them. Bucky's face was a black shadow behind his hair, still long and unkempt just as Hydra left it. It did a good job of obscuring his identity, if that's what they were going for.

"Just a couple more miles, Man, come on!" Sam grunted as he slung Bucky's arm over his shoulder and hoisted him upright. Bucky just let out a long groan, head rolling loosely on his neck. It was the first sound they heard from him so far. Steve moved in, setting the flashlight on the ground before lifting Bucky bridal-style.

Steve paused for a moment, frowning down at his long-haired friend. Sam picked up the flashlight and led the way. He noticed Steve's hesitation and queried, "What's up?" Steve opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. He began following Sam and mumbled,

"He's so _light_."

A brief chuckle from Sam. "To _you_ , maybe. Bet that arm alone was fifty pounds. Had a hell of a time getting him to the car even without it."

Steve sighed through his nostrils. "They did something to him in there. Did you see the stitches on his back?"

"Stitches?" Sam glanced back at him. Steve nodded.

"I think they took out more than his arm. He…He needs to rest, Sam."

"We can't stop." Sam frowned, pressing on several paces ahead. He was slightly out of breath and the pits of his shirt were soaked all the way through to his hoodie. "We gotta keep moving, at least 'til we reach Tony."

"He needs medical attention," Steve insisted, plodding slowly behind with Bucky lying half-conscious in his arms. "Give me the flashlight."

"You can't do a thing for him that Tony couldn't do better. The sooner we—"

"Sam! I'm not asking!" Steve barked. Bucky flinched with a start and Sam froze, grip tightening on the flashlight.

When he turned, he saw Bucky sitting beside Steve's feet. The blond man shrugged off his jacket and laid it over the gravel on the shoulder of the road. Then he gently pulled off Bucky's sweatshirt and guided him to lay on his belly on top of it. Sam let out a long sigh and approached the scene, holding the flashlight steady to expose Bucky bare, bloody back.

It made Sam wince, seeing the stain soaked through Bucky's cast-aside shirt and the back of his pants. He hadn't even noticed it in the dark, and he'd been walking behind him the entire time.

"Stitches came open," Steve determined as he fished a small first-aid kit from his backpack. Of course he thought to pack one, Sam thought. Boy scout.

Sam nudged Bucky's sweatshirt with his sneaker. "Damn. That's a _lot_ of blood, Steve." He paused, chewing his lip. Then he cautiously suggested, "Maybe, uh…Maybe he needs to go back to—"

"No, no way in hell! Just hold that light steady, will you?"

"I'm just saying…" Sam flashed a palm. "He was obviously in the middle of some kinda medical procedure when we grabbed him. Maybe we should have left him, let him recover a little."

"Yeah, well," Steve sighed as he closed the wound with gauze and medical tape, "Hindsight is 20/20, isn't it?" Bucky squirmed, gnashing his teeth and clawing at the jacket beneath him. Stifled groans squeaked from his throat.

"I know, Pal. I'm sorry. Try to hold still, okay?" Steve said softly, but his fear casted bold shadows on the facets of his face. Sam crouched with the flashlight resting on his knees, watching Steve pack the wound with the scant supplies they had. The stench of blood was thick in the air. There was another scent there too, like an auto garage.

The job was half-done when blue headlights pierced the darkness on the horizon. A car was coming over the hill. Sam bolted to his feet and whispered sharply, "We couldn't look more suspicious. Let's just get moving."

"He's still bleeding," Steve told him stubbornly. Bucky's eyes squeezed shut and he let out another groan as the blond man fussed with his wound. Sam raised his voice.

"They're gonna call the cops, Steve! We have to _go_! At least get him on his feet or something!"

Steve turned to the road. The car was quickly approaching, but it was still too far to see them through the darkness. He looked down at Bucky, lying half-naked on the ground. Then at his own hands, covered in blood.

That's right. Everyone had a phone in their pocket these days.

Steve helped Bucky to his feet. The wound was still leaking, but it wasn't _gushing_ like it had been. He should be okay long enough to get him to Tony. Steve turned his back to Bucky and bent his knees, hooking the brunet's arm over his shoulder.

"Climb on, Buck. We'll get you fixed up, don't worry. You're gonna be fine." He didn't know if Bucky could comprehend even half of what he was saying, but the assurance made _him_ feel better regardless.

Bucky made a half-hearted effort to climb on Steve's back. He lifted his leg and Steve took care of the rest, hooking his hands under his knees.

"What about his shirt?" queried Sam. Steve tipped his head towards the woods.

"Hide it."

They clicked off the flashlight and backed into the darkness of the trees as the car passed, Sam stuffing the bloodied garment under a fern.

Then Sam shouldered Steve's backpack and they continued down the road. Bucky was dead weight against Steve's back, his one arm hooked loosely around his neck. His head was draped over the blond's shoulder, breath hot and foul. He reeked of raw meat and antiseptic, of steel and oil and other things human beings probably shouldn't smell like.

xXxXxXx

Steve and Sam jogged for the next 2.5 miles, ducking into the brush whenever a car passed. They were a sad sight by the time they reached the gas station, covered in sweat, dirt, sap, and blood. Steve smelled like a gym bag and Bucky smelled like a murder.

The station had been abandoned for years, sitting across the street from an equally abandoned lumber mill. These were the only buildings around for miles, no doubt in their minds that they were in the right place. A rusty blue van was parked beside one of the gas pumps. As Steve and Sam cautiously approached, the engine roared to life and the lights flicked on.

"That's him," Steve panted slightly. He hurried to the van with Sam in tow, stopping to peer through the driver's window as it rolled down to expose a familiar smirking face. The smirk quickly dropped and a crease appeared between Tony's brows when the trio got closer.

"Oh, jeez. You're all bloody and gross." He rolled his eyes. "And I _just_ bought this baby!"

Sam looked vaguely disgusted as he rounded the front of the vehicle. A splotch of brown rust covered the hood like a continent. "Really, Tony? We're on the run, and you go out and get the rustiest, sketchiest piece of shit you can find? This thing's a pig-magnet!"

Tony shrugged, scraping his nail against the long crack in the windshield. "Five hundo, cash only, no questions. Can't beat that."

Sam shook his head as he yanked the sliding door open. "Might as well paint 'free candy' on the side…Jesus, and it smells like mold!"

"It'll do, as long as it runs," decided Steve. He climbed inside, where the back seats had been completely removed. Bucky detached from his back and collapsed on the crusty old upholstery. Steve pulled his friend's head into his lap and told Tony, "Bucky's in bad shape. We need to get to a secure location ASAP!"

"Keep your pants on, Spangles." Tony reached into his coat pocket and waggled a little rectangular device in the air. It was no bigger than a USB stick with a tiny screen on one end. "Gotta do a little bug spray before we go anywhere." Steve quirked an eyebrow, arching his body slightly—protectively—over Bucky.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Chip-scanner," Tony replied. "Detects tracking chips, nano-bugs, bombs, that sorta thing. Painless, I promise. Just hold still."

With that, he clicked a button on the device and a blue ray of light beamed forth, slowly scanning over Steve and Bucky. Steve winced as it passed his eyes. The device suddenly beeped, startling all but Tony. He dragged a palm over his face as he exited the vehicle.

"Ugh, _please_ be a phone or something…" he sighed.

Tony rounded the van and climbed in beside Steve and Bucky. Sam followed and stood a couple feet away, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell of the interior. He mentioned, "We ditched our gear a few miles back. We don't even have phones."

Steve's eyebrows shot up and he blurted, "Oh, I have a watch! Think it's…?"

"If it's you or Sam, I'll eat my hat," said Tony, who was indeed wearing a green military cap with sunglasses resting on the brim. "I'll bet a cool million it's Barnes', right in his Hydra-shoulder."

Tony kneeled beside Bucky and hovered the device over him from toe to head. Bucky barely acknowledged him, closing his eyes and quivering against Steve. His skin was pale, sockets dark around his eyes. The bottoms of his bare feet were nearly black with filth and glistening with spots of blood where sharp rocks had nicked his soles.

The device beeped again as it passed over Bucky's forearm. Some text appeared on the screen and Tony squinted at it, then cocked an eyebrow and passed it over the metal shoulder several times. It didn't beep again.

"Damn it," Tony muttered. Steve tipped his head at the device and asked,

"What does it say?"

Tony tucked the gadget back in his pocket and planted his hands on his thighs.

"Good news and bad news," he began. "Bad news is: There's a chip in his arm. But the good news is: it's basic S.H.I.E.L.D tech and it's easy to deal with. I bet he had Hydra trackers out the wazoo when they took him in." He gestured to Bucky's missing arm. "Trackers, explosives, and who knows what else. Looks like they did all the hard work for us and dug 'em out, didn't get a chance to rig him with anything decent of their own before you guys crashed the party."

"Sooo…" Sam swiped at his neck. "How do we get this thing out of him?"

Steve quickly turned to Tony and said, "Drugs won't work on him. He's like me. He…He feels everything, it'll—" But Tony waved a dismissive hand and assured him,

"I'm not takin' any more chunks out of your boyfriend. The chip stays where it is. We can use it to our advantage."

Steve's arms tightened around Bucky's shoulders ever so slightly as he furrowed his brow. He carried a warning in his tone when he said, "He doesn't want all these gadgets in him! Hydra, SHIELD, the military—they all used him like a tool and he's not—"

Tony interrupted him once more. "Hey, hey, chill out. It's not like that. I'm saying we can use the chip to screw with SHIELD. Scramble their own signal just enough to keep them off the trail." He paused, gaze drifting towards the window before settling back on Steve. "Might buy us some time while Pepper negotiates something. You know they're going to drag it out."

Steve chewed his lip, looking down at the brunet crumpled on the floor. His face was twisted in pain, breaths coming short and shallow like a wounded animal. Blood was seeping from his back, over his ribs and onto the upholstery. Finally, Steve let out a long sigh and said, "I appreciate this, Tony. You're under no obligation to help me, and I know you have a lot at stake here. I'm," he shifted a bit, "I'm sorry if I'm being difficult. He's all I have left from…You know."

Tony shot him a single nod of understanding. He replied, "Yes, well. As the most noble and benevolent of Earth's heroes, I'm just doing my job, Sir."

Sam rolled his eyes and Steve cracked the tiniest grin. Tony clapped his hands together and declared, "Alright, time to scramble that chip before SHIELD rolls up on us. And uh, it won't hurt. Promise."

xXxXxXx


	2. Clean Slate

**{ 2. Clean Slate }**

xXxXxXx

" _I've got a bad disease,_

 _But from my brain is where I bleed,_

 _Insanity it seems,_

 _Has got me by my soul to squeeze,_

 _Where I go,_

 _I just don't know,_

 _I got to got to got to take it slow,_

 _When I find my peace of mind,_

 _I'm gonna give you some of my good time"_

 _-Soul to Squeeze, Red Hot Chili Peppers_

xXxXxXx

The motel room was hardly big enough for two people, much less four. Two queen beds occupied all but a sliver of floor space with a closet of a bathroom near the back. It would have to do, because it was the only place Tony could find that had fake security cameras, it was 2 in the morning, and they were all running on empty.

Tony stepped into the room first. He planted his hands on his hips and turned all around. "Is this where poor people spend their vacations? My closet's bigger than this! Why don't I just rent out my closet?"

"Poor people don't take vacations," Sam told him, lugging Steve's bag onto the bed. "This is where junkies stay to binge. By the way," he stooped and tugged the sheets away from the mattress, "check for bedbugs."

Tony's jaw fell slack and he drew his hands to his chest. He turned to Steve, lumbering passed with Bucky on his back.

"Cap," he said, "I changed my mind. This sucks. You're on your own."

Steve cracked a little smile and replied, "Too late. You're a delinquent now, Stark, just like the rest of us."

Tony let out a long groan and scrubbed at his eyes. "Pepper, honey," he sing-songed, " _please_ work your magic so I can come home…To my nice robots and my nice closet…"

The bathroom had no room for a tub, only a standing shower. Bucky was in no condition to stand, so he sat on the floor of it as Steve helped him out of his pants and let the water cascade from above. Blood and dirt sloughed from him and swirled down the drain. There was a plastic cup sitting near the sink. Steve swiped it and let it fill. Then he tipped Bucky's head back with one hand and poured the water over his head with the other.

Bucky's eyes were bloodshot and weary. Steve hadn't seen him look this bad since the war. This wasn't the first time he scrubbed gore from a near-catatonic Bucky Barnes, only this time the war wasn't so black-and-white. The enemies and allies were all jumbled together and everything was so unclear, so grey and murky. Back then, their apartment had been a scummier place than this room. What Steve wouldn't give to go back to that shit-hole.

Steve talked to Bucky softly, casually, like he didn't care if he got a response or not. He told him more of the same. He told him that he'd be okay, that they'd get through this and everything would be better someday.

He'd been saying that for over seventy years. Bucky dropped his forehead against his knees. Dark locks fell over his legs, spine arched and twitching as Steve carefully peeled the old tape and gauze away. Everything had mostly scabbed over in red, hideous protrusions. His body was like Steve's—it healed quickly, but he was not invulnerable. He still hurt. He still scarred.

"…Miss Potts will take care of everything. She's a sharp woman, you'd like her," Steve told him, gently dabbing a cloth near his swollen wound. "She'll make them see. They'll see you're not a damn _weapon_. I'm sorry, Buck," he apologized for the hundredth time, "they just…They don't understand. They don't know you like I do. If they did," he reached up to turn off the water, then draped a towel over Bucky's shoulders, "they wouldn't have treated you this way. It's going to get better. It really will."

Steve dried the wound as gingerly as possible, though the towel didn't escape some bloodstains. He silently apologized to room service and began dressing the wound with fresh gauze. They stopped at a pharmacy and picked up some supplies, but trips like that had to be far and few between.

People didn't often recognize them outside of their gear, though it wasn't the general public they were concerned about. S.H.I.E.L.D had agents planted all over the place and they were probably tapping into every security camera in the state.

Tony used his laptop in tandem with some other future-gadgets Steve wasn't familiar with to scramble Bucky's tracking chip before they left the gas station. "I made it look like we're two hundred miles south of here, and the signal will just keep rerouting." Tony told him. "Should throw them off for a few days."

A few days. Maybe that was all they needed. Steve dreaded the thought of S.H.I.E.L.D dragging this case out for months or even years on end. He dreaded it because he knew he was stubborn enough to play their stupid game as long as it took—until he and Bucky were old and gray with a foot in the grave. He'd die a criminal. He'd do it for Bucky. To the end of the line.

xXxXxXx

"I better not find crumbs in our bed, Samuel Wilson," Tony warned. Sam sat cross-legged on one of the beds—the one nearest to the door—and popped another Funyun in his mouth.

"Gotta feed those bugs," Sam grinned. Tony leaned against the wall across the room, fiddling with his burner phone. He mock-laughed and glanced towards the other bed, where Bucky was curled up in a new pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt with " _America: Love it or Leave it_ " printed across the front.

"I bet you guys think you're hilarious," Steve said when Sam and Tony came out of the pharmacy with that shirt, snickering like a couple of kids. They got it for Steve but he refused to wear it, so it was passed on to Bucky who didn't seem to care one way or the other. He still hadn't said a word, hadn't resisted or tried to run away.

Steve was pissed. He wished Bucky would show a little initiative, a little autonomy, _something_ to show that he was still human. Well, of course. Of course he was human, but he wasn't _Bucky_. Whatever Hydra had been doing to his mind, S.H.I.E.L.D cranked it to 11. Hydra made him feel nothing. S.H.I.E.L.D made him _into_ nothing. Wiped him clean, a blank slate to impress upon, though they never got the chance.

So it was up to Steve to mold him, build him up and shape him back into the person he used to be. And that's why Steve was shut away in the tiny motel bathroom, arms quaking against the counter as tears dropped into the sink. The shower was running even though he'd dried and dressed ten minutes ago. It was loud. It masked his sniveling—and how dare he! How dare he feel sorry for himself, he thought, when his best friend was the one suffering such catastrophic injustice.

"Pull it together, Rogers," he mouthed through clenched teeth, drying his tears on the ball of his fist. Sniffling back the snot, splashing cold water on his pink face. He combed his fingers through his hair. Presentable, convincing. Totally wasn't crying, just wet from the shower.

Steve left the bathroom convinced that the others would be staring at him and asking questions, but in reality no one even paid him a glance. Bucky was asleep, Tony playing with his phone, and Sam fixated on some public access channel. Steve looked down at Bucky, lying atop the covers.

"Bucky," Steve whispered, giving his metal shoulder a nudge. The brunet snapped awake, eyes darting around the room before settling vacuously on Steve. "Are you cold?"

The stare became slightly more focused, like Bucky had heard Steve and acknowledged that he was indeed a thing that existed, but he still didn't respond. Not a word, not even a nod or a shake of the head.

"You, uh…Want a blanket?"

No response.

Steve, being Steve, always knew best. So he made the decision for Bucky and pulled the blankets out from under him, then draped them over his body. Tony glanced up from his phone, Sam watching from the corner of his eye.

"There." The blond man forced a little grin. "That's better, isn't it?"

Bucky lied there in silent acceptance for about ten seconds. His brow was furrowed slightly as if contemplating the situation.

Then he decided this was bullshit and kicked the blanket to the floor. He made a decision. He practiced autonomy. He rolled over and closed his eyes again.

Steve's brows nearly rocketed off his face. His eyes flashed over to Sam, then Tony, confirming that they all witnessed the same thing. He couldn't fight the smile pulling at his lips when he said, "I guess he didn't want it."

xXxXxXx

Sleeping here was rough. Tony finished off his flask and was snoring within the hour, Sam lying beside him with a pillow hugged over his head. Steve settled next to Bucky, eyes wide open and flinching at every sound he heard. Voices from the adjacent room, engines starting, shifts in the old building.

S.H.I.E.L.D agents could crash in any second and Bucky was in no condition to defend himself. Not that Captain America, Iron Man, and Falcon wouldn't put up a fight, but they _were_ missing most of their gear. Even Tony was selective about the electronics he carried. _Everything_ had a damn tracking chip these days; if not from S.H.I.E.L.D or Hydra, then the government or a mega-corporation.

Steve slept fitfully, plagued by nightmares and waking every hour to darkness and Tony's snoring. Each time, he checked Bucky only to find him still in a deep sleep with his arms hugged to his chest like a corpse in rigor mortis, hair hanging over his face. It drove Steve crazy, he hated that mop. At some point, he groggily, absently, brushed Bucky's hair back before he fell asleep. Bucky didn't wake.

xXxXxXx


	3. Art Therapy

**{ 3. Art Therapy }**

 _"If I had a clue I'd know exactly,_

 _What to do,_

 _If I were the wiser of the two_

 _And if I saw it all so clear,_

 _I'd write it down and bend your ear,_

 _If I were the clearer of the two"_

 _-'If', Red Hot Chili Peppers_

xXxXxXx

They were out the door at 10AM. That was long enough in this dump.

None of them had eaten a decent meal since yesterday and Steve was feeling it the most. Sitting down at a restaurant was a no-go, so Tony called in an order and Sam briefly ducked in the diner to pick it up, identity obscured by a beanie and sunglasses. He pulled both off his head as he climbed into the back of the van with the others.

Tony had the windows tinted and went under the hood with his own hands before he took this van on the road. It may have been a clunker, but it was a reliable clunker. Now it was sitting in a park, no cameras to be found as far as Tony could see, and no civilians out today as rain splattered against the windshield.

Four bags of food were divided between them. Of course Bucky didn't voice a preference, so Steve ordered for him. Simple French toast and bacon, and Steve even drowned it in butter and syrup for him because that's the kind of shit Bucky Barnes did to his food—at least back in the day.

"Look at us," said Tony, "eating peasant food out of Styrofoam containers like _cavemen_. You think we'll get food poisoning?"

"I think that's the least of our problems right now," replied Sam. He stabbed his fork into a hashbrown and glanced at Bucky to his right. Steve cut Bucky's food into small bits and placed a fork in his hand, guiding his arm through the motions of eating.

After a while, Bucky repeated the action on his own. He ate methodically, mechanically. At least he was eating, Steve thought.

"Oh," Tony began, quickly scrubbing his hands on a napkin, "before I forget, Pepper sent us a little present." He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a second-hand wallet. Flipping it open, he pulled out three cards and tossed them on the floor between them.

Sam squinted at the portrait that looked identical to—but not exactly like—himself. It was a fake driver's license with the name "Pearson, Wayne S." in the name field. Steve picked up his and Bucky's, named "Liam R. Walsh" and "Nathan T. Price", respectively.

"This guy's fatter than me," mentioned Sam. Tony shrugged.

"You lost weight. Good for you! My name's Richard, by the way."

"Well, you are kind of a dick."

Steve held back a snort and slid the IDs in his pocket. "Tell Pepper I appreciate it," he said. They returned to their breakfast and Bucky was still cramming it down, one bite after another until every crumb was gone. Before long they were back on the road, heading west while avoiding major highways as much as possible. It was Sam's turn to drive, Tony decided, and played with his phone in the passenger seat while Steve and Bucky sat on the floor in back.

Steve took the opportunity to check on Bucky's surgery wound. He pulled up his (stupid) t-shirt and peeled back the gauze, stained with faint pink spots. The skin had already closed itself under the scabbing. Steve let out a sigh of relief and pressed the dressing back into place. "It's healing clean, Buck. That's good, it—"

His words trailed off when he noticed the look on his friend's face. Bucky's skin flushed white and his eyes looked panicked, drool pooling at the corners of his mouth.

"Sam," Steve turned to the front, "pull over. _Quick_." His tone was urgent and Sam didn't question the order.

He drifted to the shoulder and Steve was wrenching the door open before the wheels had even stopped, dragging Bucky's torso outside just before half-digested French toast spilled from his mouth.

Tony winced and said, " _Nice_. See, I knew that food was bad news." Bucky leaned out of the open door and heaved over and over. Steve held him steady with one hand and pulled his hair back with the other, a deep, apologetic frown creasing his face. It was just like old times, when Steve led a wasted Bucky back to their apartment every Friday night and he left a trail of puke the whole way. Only this time, Bucky wasn't drunk and no one was having fun.

When the mess stopped flowing, Steve cracked open a water bottle and rinsed Bucky's mouth before pulling him back into the van. Their head and shoulders were wet with rain. Sam twisted around in his seat, eyebrows raised. "Is he okay?" he asked. Steve just sighed,

"I don't know."

"Better not puke in my new van, Barnes," warned Tony. After a pause, he offered some sage alcoholic advice, "We should, uh…Get him a sports drink or something."

Steve agreed, and the van was back on the road. They stopped at a rural convenience store and once again, Sam was sent in to pick up supplies. He wasn't quite the celebrity Steve and Tony were. He preferred to stay out of the media circus, so he was the least likely to be recognized by nosy civilians. Tony loved to see his face plastered on everything from TV to product endorsements, and now his vanity was coming to bite him in the ass.

Sam returned with some Gatorade, saltines, and medicine which probably wouldn't do anything for the soldiers, but it didn't hurt to try. Tony slipped him an extra 20 for some booze too. He had a briefcase stuffed with cash stored under the driver's seat, so they didn't have to be frugal any time soon.

Bucky obediently consumed the crackers and Gatorade. They were ten minutes down the road before he heaved up blue saltines in Steve's lap. After a change of pants and some arguing, Sam was sent into a GNC. He came back with a tub of protein powder, which Steve shook into a bottle of water and Bucky drank that too, despite how miserable he had to be feeling at this point. He didn't complain.

The van rolled down a backwater road, nothing but forests on either side for miles. A low-traffic route, not a place where cops were likely to linger. An hour passed and Bucky's protein drink stayed in his guts. "Liquid only, I guess," Steve told the others. He didn't know what S.H.I.E.L.D did to cripple his friend this way.

Or maybe this was Hydra's doing. S.H.I.E.L.D had become a monster of its own, but destroying Bucky's digestive system seemed too sinister even for them. That was some Hydra-style bullshit, probably another way to keep Bucky under their thumb. Keep him helpless and dependent on Mother Hydra.

Steve's fists quaked at the thought. God, he wanted to see them burn, and he wanted to light the fire. S.H.I.E.L.D, Hydra, anyone who had ever done Buck wrong could burn in Hell. He looked over at the brunet, sitting in the back corner of the van. His knees were pulled to his chest as he stared out the window above Steve's head.

At least he had shoes on his feet now, thanks to Sam. White and black high-tops. Steve thought they looked ridiculous, but the others assured him that these shoes were considered very stylish in the future, especially with track pants and a hoodie.

"It's what all the kids are wearing," Tony told him. Steve was unimpressed. Why were kids dressing like bums these days? Bucky wouldn't be caught dead wearing this back when. He was the kind of guy who spent twenty minutes in front of the mirror trying to get his hair to look just so.

5PM came and went. Now they were well into rural Pennsylvania, where the gray sky opened with patches of blue. Sam handed the wheel over to Steve, who was apparently the official Bucky-sitter, so the brunet took Tony's place in the passenger seat.

They crawled along in the afternoon traffic. Steve pulled the brim of his ballcap low. Tinted windows or not, it wasn't worth the risk. Sam and Tony reclined on the floor in back, well out of sight as they looked up at the sky through the rear windshield.

No one was feeling chatty and they moved at a snail's pace, so Steve turned on the radio. He skipped over a dozen fuzzy stations before settling on a baseball game. He still wasn't accustomed to modern music—it was all noise to him, and the radio rarely played tunes from his time. So fuck it, it was always news or sports with Steve.

Sam closed his eyes, leaning back on his duffel bag. He drifted in and out of sleep, the sharp scent of alcohol snapping him awake every time Tony opened his flask. God, that guy could drink. Sam woke with a start once more, but for once it wasn't Tony's fault. Metal music suddenly blasted through the sound system, vocalist growling like an animal over squealing guitars.

Sam and Tony glanced at eachother, then sat up and turned to Steve. They could see his face in the rear-view mirror. He looked just as confused as they did.

"Why'd you change it to this?" asked Sam, raising his voice above the noise. Steve looked back at him through the mirror and replied,

"I didn't." He nodded his head towards Bucky, leaning back in his seat as he stared at the traffic ahead.

xXxXxXx

Tony searched for motels from his phone. It wasn't his Starkphone, but a clunky brick from the grocery store that, for all its problems, was at least untraceable. After an hour of metal, Steve cautiously turned off the radio. Bucky's eyes were closed and he didn't seem to care.

They stopped at the next motel and Tony donned his hat and glasses, stepping out to check the security situation. The decent places had high-definition cameras and police patrolling the area, and those were risks they weren't willing to take. In their case: The shittier the motel, the better.

Tony ended up booking a room. Half of the cameras he saw were fake and the others were so cheap that it didn't matter. Separate rooms would be preferable, but Steve suggested that splitting up may not be the best idea right now. They checked the room for bugs—electronic or otherwise—before settling in.

It was nearly identical to the last room they stayed in, only a little less grungy and with an actual bathtub. The walls smelled faintly of cigarettes. Steve sorted out the fast food they picked up earlier and cracked open a nutritional drink for Bucky, which was the closest thing to food he could tolerate.

"This is gross," Tony griped over a soggy chicken strip. "You're not missing anything, Bucko." Bucky's eyes flicked to him for a moment, then he finished the last of his drink and dropped the empty bottle on the floor. Steve picked it up as he walked by and shoved it in their designated trash bag. He hadn't sat down since they arrived, peeking through the blinds every few minutes. Sam finally had enough.

"Steve," he held up a palm, "you gotta relax, Man. You're acting like a tweeker." Steve sighed through his nostrils and forced himself to plant his ass on the bed next to Bucky.

"Sorry," he apologized. He didn't even know what a tweeker _was_ and he was still offended. Across the room near the TV, Tony was boozing it up straight from the bottle. There wasn't much else to do, but Steve wished he'd be a little more responsible. What happened when S.H.I.E.L.D or Hydra or whoever the fuck busted the door down and Tony was too sloshed to stand?

Sam anticipated the boredom and planned ahead more constructively. He picked up an adult coloring book during their last stop, fishing that and a box of 24 colored pencils from his duffel bag. Steve watched as he casually folded the cover back and began to color in an intricate mandala.

"Are you _coloring_?" The blond man quirked an eyebrow. Sam never took his eyes off the page as he replied matter-of-factly,

"It's called _art therapy_."

"I thought those were for kids."

"They're for adults now." Sam paused. "Seriously, they're all the rage right now. Wanna join me? Not much else to do but drink, and we know how that works for you."

The corner of Steve's mouth curled. He contemplated it for a moment, then shrugged and said, "Alright." Sam moved to the center of the other bed and queried,

"Tony? How about some art therapy? More constructive than…Liquor therapy, or whatever you're doin' over there." Tony paid him a little sneer and scoffed.

"What am I? Five?"

"I wonder sometimes…" Sam shrugged. "Offer still stands."

Steve used a hardcover travel book as a surface, placing a coloring page over top. He put it in Bucky's lap and held out 23 pencils.

"Pick a color," he said. Bucky's eyes scanned back and forth over his options, then back at Steve. Finally his hand reached up, hesitating for a second before plucking the dark blue pencil from Steve's grip.

Back in their day, therapy was for 'crazy' people and no one liked to talk about it. Now it seemed everyone 'saw somebody' for their problems and spoke about it as casually as the weather. If this was a type of therapy, Steve figured, maybe it would help Bucky.

The brunet watched Sam for a moment. Then he flipped his own page to the blank side and set it on the bed, holding it in place with his socked foot as he scrawled something there. Steve silently observed. The lines seemed formless at first, unsteady, abstract. But as Bucky filled the page, they took shape into a somewhat competent drawing—at least competent enough for Steve to recognize what it was.

It started with a rectangle in the center of the page. That was meant to be a table. A one-armed person was lying atop of it, unclothed with straps on its ankles and remaining wrist. The figure was drawn in a basic, childlike way, but all the anatomy was there. Genitals, two dots for nipples and one for a naval, five fingers on its hand and five toes on each foot, with long strands of hair coming down from its head. The figure had dark circles for eyes, a triangle-nose and a big frown.

Steve rested his chin on his hand, furrowing his brow as he watched Bucky continue. Two more figures were added, about twice the size of the first and though they were drawn from the front, Steve got the impression they were meant to be standing and not lying down. They stood on either side of the figure on the table, wearing long coats with what looked like syringes floating above their hands. They did not have hair or faces.

Bucky handed the drawing back to Steve, along with the hardcover book beneath it. Steve took it gingerly, throat tightening as he stared at it for a long moment.

"Sam," he said, cursing the little quiver that crept into his voice. Sam looked up from his page and saw Steve offering him the drawing with anxiety on his face.

Carefully examining the artwork, Sam cracked a smile at Steve and told him, "This is progress."

Steve couldn't believe what he was hearing. It didn't look like "progress" to him. It looked like "another reason to burn S.H.I.E.L.D to the fucking ground". Then again, he wasn't the mental health professional here.

Sam turned to Bucky and tapped his finger on the lying figure. "Is this you, Bucky?" he asked. The brunet still held remnants of vacuous confusion on his face, but it seemed to be fading over time. He didn't nod or speak, he just pressed his finger over the figure's face, and Sam took it as a safe 'yes'.

Tearing another page from the book, Sam flipped it to the blank side and gave that and the hardcover back to Bucky.

"Draw something else for me," he requested. He and Steve watched. The product was another naked, one-armed figure, this time sitting in an oddly-shaped chair. Either Bucky forgot to draw its head, or just decided it shouldn't have one.

The third drawing depicted the figure inside of a square with three other figures surrounding it. This time it was wearing clothes. All four were wearing U-shaped smiles. Two had short, straight hairs sticking up from their heads, one with a beard and one without. The other had dark, curly squiggles for hair.

The final drawing was a cheeseburger. He drew a fucking cheeseburger. Probably the one Sam was eating earlier, Steve assumed, and then Bucky decided he was done with this activity because he dropped the hardcover on the floor. Tony meandered over as Steve gathered the drawings off the questionably clean carpet. He wobbled a bit, breath reeking of alcohol as he leaned over and pointed to the bearded figure in the square.

"Is that supposed to be me?" he asked. Steve shrugged.

"It must be."

"Terrible likeness," Tony slurred. "F-minus." Bucky curled up on the bed and closed his eyes. It wasn't that late, but then again, his body was trying to heal after S.H.I.E.L.D ripped a bunch of trackers and bombs and God knows what else out of his spine, then he hiked through miles of forest and nearly bled to death. He was out like a light in minutes, on top of the blankets as usual.

Tony was next to pass out, followed by Sam. They shared a bed again because Bucky was 'weird' and 'pukey' and though he was _probably_ harmless, they didn't trust him 100% not to choke them in their sleep yet. Not like Steve did. Sam wasn't awake to scold him, so Steve loitered by the window with his finger parting the blinds just enough to peek through.

He took note of every vehicle in the parking lot, observing other guests as they came in and out of their rooms. A couple SUVs and a red car in the lot. A bald man and a blond woman stepped out of one of the SUVs and entered a room. No familiar faces. They weren't being followed. Yet.

xXxXxXx

 _[Notes:_

 _-"Dick" is a nickname for "Richard". Yeah, I don't know why either._

 _-Gatorade in particular is supposed to be helpful for dehydration/vomiting because it has electrolytes.]_

xXxXxXx


	4. Ammunition

**{ 4. Ammunition }**

" _Please don't strip my mind,_

 _Leave something behind,_

 _Please don't strip my mind"_

 _-'Strip My Mind', Red Hot Chili Peppers_

xXxXxXx

Steve was last to bed and first to rise. He woke at dawn, showered and shaved, was dressed and ready to go before anyone else even left their beds. When he left the bathroom, there was Bucky. He stood inches from the doorway and scared the hell out of Steve, like he'd been waiting there the whole time.

"Jeez, Buck," the blond man sighed and pressed a hand to his heart. "Made me jump! Oh, uh," he suddenly remembered, stepping back into the bathroom, "by the way, Sam got some stuff for you." He picked up individual items on the counter. "Toothbrush, deodorant, razor, comb. These are all yours."

Bucky stared at the items, then looked back at Steve. His eyes were expressing…Something. Steve couldn't tell exactly what, but they weren't dead anymore and for that, he was grateful. Bucky seemed to be here in the present, more awake and aware than he'd been since his rescue.

Bucky lurched forward slightly, hands grasping at the hem of his shirt. His gaze dropped as he made a sound from the back of his throat. Steve thought he might vomit or something, so he pulled him into the bathroom and queried, "You okay? Buck—"

"Mmmm…Mmm…" Bucky hummed, throat tense, shutting his eyes as if humming was the most difficult thing in the world. Steve's brows arched.

Bucky was trying to speak.

Steve planted his hands on his friend's shoulders. "Say it, Buck. Come on," he urged. He was not a patient man—never was and never would be.

"Mmm…"

"You can do it, Pal."

"Mmmmm…"

Bucky lurched again, voice breaking into a choking sound. He suddenly shook his head and turned against the wall, tangling his fingers in his hair.

Frustration. He was expressing _frustration_ and that was new since the "hard reset". Steve still didn't know what the hell a hard reset was, but Sam was right. Bucky was making progress. He was becoming human again, feeling and expressing and doing things on his own volition. Weapons, tools, they didn't do that.

Steve tried to comfort his friend without crowding him, placing a hand on his flesh-shoulder. He assured him, "It's okay, you'll get it. You're doing so much better already." Bucky pressed his forehead against the plaster and groaned, dropping his hand to his side. Steve gently pulled him away from the wall and directed him to the items on the counter that apparently belonged to him.

"Let's try this stuff out, huh? We'll shave that animal off your face, get you lookin' sharp." Steve offered a weak smile and playfully scrubbed his palm over the brunet's short beard. Past-Bucky wouldn't have tolerated a beard like this. "Jesus, I look like a tramp," he'd say.

Present-Bucky didn't say anything. He stood there and looked vaguely miserable as Steve shaved his face smooth. Afterwards, he guided Bucky into the shower and waited with his back politely turned. He had the autonomy to wash himself now. He could use the shower and the toilet on his own. He could draw memories, even if he only had a handful to work with, and Steve was sorry they weren't even good ones. Hydra shattered those. Then S.H.I.E.L.D barged in and swept up the pieces.

Fucking vultures.

Bucky methodically washed his hair and scrubbed his body one section at a time. He stepped out of the tub, sopping wet hair hanging over his face, water pooling on the linoleum around him. Steve threw a towel over his head, helped him dry, apply deodorant and dress in clean clothes—blue jeans and another trashy novelty shirt from Tony. The fabric was bright green, with a graphic of a glass beaker and the text " _Forget lab safety, I want super powers_!" below.

Steve's eyes nearly rolled back into his brain when he saw it. Tony wasn't allowed to shop for Bucky anymore, he decided, even if Past-Bucky probably would have giggled. It wasn't nice to use him for their own amusement, dressing him like a damn clown when he was this compromised. Next time, _Steve_ was picking the clothes and he'd choose something respectable.

Bucky brushed his teeth while Steve stood behind him, carefully working the tangles from his hair with his new comb. He wanted to lop it off so bad. Too bad none of them knew a thing about cutting hair, and they didn't feel comfortable in the close-quarters of a barbershop.

For now, Steve supposed he could just tie it back. He gathered the damp locks in his fist and wrapped a rubberband around the ponytail. Bucky stopped brushing, staring hard at his reflection. Toothpaste oozed from his slack lips. He held the toothbrush between his teeth as he reached back, pinching the rubberband and ripping it away.

Dark hair fell loose and free around his shoulders. Bucky dropped the rubberband on the floor and continued brushing. Palms up in surrender, Steve apologized, "Got it. Sorry."

xXxXxXx

This town was a cultural graveyard. Tony called in breakfast at some generic chain place and parked the van in an abandoned lot where a Sears used to be. No cameras, no civilians, an open space where no one could sneak up on them. The four sat in a circle in the back of the van with Styrofoam containers stacked between them.

Steve ate like a horse. Three of the containers were for him alone, and he felt guilty shoveling through them while Bucky was sentenced to a disgusting protein mixture. Sam and Tony argued over a map, discussing the most tactical route west. There was no particular destination in mind, they just had to keep moving until Pepper said everything was okay.

So far, nothing was okay. The plan was to straddle the north and south, stay on the back roads and out of areas where the patrol got ticket-happy. Tony was the worst driver—no one denied that except Tony—and Steve got impatient and road-ragey at the drop of a hat. It was up to Sam, as the designated Best Driver, to get them across Ohio today.

Cornstalks whizzed by at 70 miles per hour on either side of the van. There wasn't much else to see but a long, straight road and an endless blue void above. Tony couldn't stand the monotony. He sang along with the radio, bitched and moaned and monologued from the passenger seat, shallow banter pouring from his mouth like it always did. There was hardly a silent moment with him.

Meanwhile, Bucky was struggling to get just one word out. Tony prattled on and on up front and did enough talking for all of them. They got used to it. His voice became white noise after a while. Sometimes, when Sam was lucky, he got a word in edgewise.

The carpet in the van was disgusting. They draped a rug over it and now Steve felt better about Bucky lying with his face pressed to the floor. Steve removed the gauze from his back today. The wound mended itself, but it was still swollen and scabbed. He was sure it had to be sore, would probably leave a big gnarly scar to go with all the other scars on his friend's body. Wounds from hundreds of battles, none of which he fought willingly.

After a while, Bucky got up and started rifling through the bags. First he hit Steve's backpack, dumping everything onto the floor. His shield touched down with a heavy _thunk_ , then _ping ping ping_ as his toiletries and other items cascaded over it. Steve's first instinct was to stop him, but he forced himself to hang back and observe.

Bucky cleared the debris off the shield and cocked his head, examining it for a long moment. He reached forward, brushing his fingers against the smooth metal. Steve bit his tongue, tried not to ruin the moment…But he couldn't help it. He asked cautiously, "Is that familiar to you?"

The brunet's eyes flashed towards him, staring with the same intensity. He looked back at the shield, back at Steve, then at the shield once more. Then he lost interest, pushing it aside before moving on to Sam's duffel bag. Steve couldn't hide the disappointment on his face. He sighed as he swiped his backpack and began stuffing everything back inside.

Carelessly tossing clothes and clutter out of Sam's bag, Bucky didn't stop until he found what he was looking for at the very bottom. He pulled out the coloring book and the box of pencils, tearing out a random page and flipping it to the blank side. Once again, he held it down with his foot as he scrawled on the paper, this time with a red pencil. Steve watched, throwing a glance up front where the others were oblivious, Tony still blathering on about sloppy code or something.

The minutes felt like hours as Bucky made careful, deliberate lines on the page that still turned up crooked and unsteady. When the drawing was finished, he offered it to Steve. There was the naked figure with one arm again, trapped in a square and frowning as a larger, faceless figure sprayed him with hose. Chaotic scribbles depicted a harsh stream of water.

Decontamination. Steve felt his chest tighten. Bucky was already at work on a new picture, in which the naked figure stood with several t-shaped poles at either side of him. Squares were hanging from the poles, lines leading from the squares to the figure's mouth.

Tube-feedings. Jesus, did they ever clothe him? Did S.H.I.E.L.D treat him with any dignity at all, or was he just property to them—something to be maintained and repurposed? Fuck. Steve's face felt hot. He needed to punch something and there was nothing to punch. The drawings trembled with his hand.

If S.H.I.E.L.D treated him so disgracefully, he shuddered to think of what _Hydra_ did to him before that. Bucky probably didn't remember Hydra now, not after the hard reset. That was the only favor S.H.I.E.L.D had done for him, then they went and pulled the same shit they just erased. What was the point? If they needed a weapon, why couldn't they build one that didn't breathe, love, hurt, _feel_?

Bucky was done drawing. He pushed the book aside and settled back onto the floor, lying among the mess he created from Sam's stuff. He just needed to express that—to get the bad thoughts out, Steve supposed. He couldn't tell, but he could show. He was sharing his memories with Steve; as intimately awful as they were.

Bucky's memories were Steve's only insight into S.H.I.E.L.D's true colors, and when Pepper got this whole situation settled and it was safe to go home, he didn't plan on sweeping this under the rug. Actions had consequences. He would give his friend justice or die trying.

Maybe Sam could analyze these drawings a little better. Steve folded them and placed them in his backpack with the others.

xXxXxXx

Tony felt like he hit the jackpot with this B&B. The old couple who owned it were bumbly and half-blind, there were no cameras or security whatsoever, and the place was in the middle of nowhere. Even better, there were two rooms available, both on the upper floor where they had a good vantage point from the windows.

The place was cozy and didn't reek like cigarettes or mold. Steve handed Bucky's drawings off to Sam before they split up into their respective rooms. Sam examined them as he reclined on the bed—which was way too soft—as Tony hovered obnoxiously over his shoulder.

The bag crinkled loudly as Tony grabbed a handful of chips. He sprayed crumbs over Sam when he spoke over a mouthful, "Whassat?"

Sam rolled his eyes and brushed orange crumbs off the page. He replied, "This is our evidence against S.H.I.E.L.D. Barnes didn't draw these from his imagination—they're _memories_. He doesn't _have_ an imagination because they took that from him."

Sam paused, shuffling to the next drawing. It was the Bucky figure being force-fed through tubes. He shook his head and continued, "Bet they didn't expect us to bust him out in a million years. If they had it their way, I doubt he ever would have left that facility. He's got no social security number, no family, no ties…"

"Secret human experimentation," Tony crunched over a chip. "Sounds like Hydra to me."

"Exactly." Sam flipped to the next drawing, where the Bucky figure was lying on an operating table. "I'm amazed Barnes has the mental capacity to draw these at all. He must be, uh…Well, he's like Steve with the healing thing. I don't think his brain's an exception." Tony nodded. Sam continued, "He bounces back quick. That's good. The more he can tell us, the more ammunition we have."

He set each drawing to the side after he finished viewing them. Tony sat on the bed and picked up the cheeseburger drawing. "What about this one? Is this ammunition?" he asked. Sam cracked a little smile.

"Nah. I think that's just a burger."

"Damn," Tony snapped his fingers. "We'll never bust 'em for their crimes against food!"

Sam looked at the image of four figures smiling in a box. "This is us," he pointed. "And I'm pretty sure this box is supposed to be the van, or maybe a room. Whatever it is, it's small. He might be feeling caged."

"Hell, _I_ feel caged." Tony rolled his eyes. Sam went on,

"Could be more symbolic than literal. Might be feeling trapped by his own limitations, but I think he'll make some big strides soon. S.H.I.E.L.D didn't want a vegetable, they wanted a clean canvas. He's still a threat in the wrong hands."

"Well, right now he's in _our_ hands and all he does is throw up a lot and piss on the toilet seat. Look out, Da Vinci, we're making masterpieces!"

"He'll always be a target, Tony. For the rest of his life." Sam shook his head a little. "Hydra, S.H.I.E.L.D, whoever—monsters like that don't see a human being. They just see a powerful Cap-proof weapon and they want a piece of it."

A sigh gusted through his nostrils. "He'll need to be guarded twenty-four-seven and the attacks will never stop. S.H.I.E.L.D knows that and their intentions were _probably_ for the greater good, but…Well, he's the hill Steve's willing to die on."

A silence passed. Tony began spreading the drawings out on the bed, lining them up in a neat square. He leaned over and aimed his phone, snapping photos at various distances. Sam quirked an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

Tony replied flatly, "Pepper could use some of that ammunition."

xXxXxXx

There were two beds in this room just like at the motels. But this time, Bucky got one all to himself. He sprawled his limbs out across the mattress, lying on his belly like a starfish as Steve unpacked some things. Tony deemed this place secure enough to stay a while. Might as well get comfortable.

It was dark now and the windows were nothing but a security issue, so Steve closed the blinds and checked the door for the third time to ensure it was locked. Bucky rolled off the bed and started digging through the bag of snacks. He found a nutrient drink and sucked it down, dropping the empty bottle on the floor.

"In the trash," Steve reminded him. Bucky glared back, then responded by kicking the bottle. It made a hollow sound as it hit the wall. Steve frowned, sighing as he crossed the room and picked it up for him. Losing his temper was pointless. Bucky was expressing something. Or _trying_ to, in the limited ways he could. Steve couldn't scold him for that.

Bucky pressed his arm and forehead against the wall. "Mmm…Mmmmmm…" he hummed. The noise got louder and more frantic by the moment. Steve frowned, standing helplessly near the window. The hums got deeper, turning to growls, turning to roars, turning to choking, pathetic cries as teardrops hit the floor.

He pounded his fist on the wall. Half-hearted, but it still left a crack in the plaster and Steve winced. "Hey," the blond man said softly, slowly approaching from the side. "It's okay. You're okay, Buck."

Steve had never uttered such a bold lie in all his life. Bucky _knew_ he was full of shit because he suddenly wailed, hunching lower against the wall. It was a sad, agonized sound that sucked the air from Steve's lungs, squeezed his chest like a vice. Steve didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do. _Man with a plan_ , his ass.

It was instinct more than anything, when he pulled Bucky away from the wall and into his arms. He was crushing him, probably hurting the wound on his back, and he couldn't stop. Bucky didn't resist either way. The brunet leaned into the embrace and grasped the front of Steve's shirt in his fist, quaking with tears and fury.

This was new; this agony, these tears. As much as Steve's heart ached for him, he _wanted_ Bucky to cry. He _wanted_ him to express his pain over the injustices committed against him. He wanted him to express it as much as he wanted to protect him from it. Pain was a necessary evil of being human, and Bucky was long overdue for a complaint or two.

Steve guided him to the bed near the window, sat down beside him as he bawled. His sobs alternated between pitiful and angry, face streaming with tears and sweat and snot. Plucking a tissue from the box on the side table, Steve wiped his face dry but the tears just kept streaming. Bucky's breath was shallow and ragged. Choking on his own sobs.

The brunet's chest heaved with each labored breath. He leaned forward, hair falling over his head like a shroud as murky liquid oozed to the floor between his feet. Steve jolted upright and swiped the little trash can near the desk. He positioned it under Bucky's face and spared the carpet the best he could.

Bucky choked and sputtered, sobbing between breaks as the rest made its way out. Steve patted his back until the brunet's breath evened out and nothing but drool passed his lips. "Rinse," he said, passing Bucky an opened water bottle. Bucky did as he was told, swishing a few mouthfuls and spitting them in the trash can.

They sat in silence for…Steve wasn't sure how long. Bucky looked like Hell, hunched over with his head nearly between his legs, bits of vomit at the ends of his hair. At least he wasn't crying anymore. Too exhausted for that now, Steve was sure. He couldn't—wouldn't—let Bucky stay this miserable for too long. He never did, even back in the day when Bucky was drinking himself stupid because some dame said "goodbye".

After a while, he pulled him to his feet and led him into the bathroom for his second shower today. So Present-Bucky was a little sickly, a little gross, a little messy—whatever. Steve would deal. He helped him rinse away the worst of it, then filled the tub and poured soap under the running tap.

A bubble bath. Now that was luxury. The kind of luxury Bucky should have been experiencing weeks ago, Steve thought, if S.H.I.E.L.D didn't swoop in with their grubby talons and whisk him away to their bullshit facility. Bucky didn't deserve all that. If only the whole world could know James Buchanan Barnes the way he did.

Maybe Steve shouldn't have left him alone in the tub, but after seeing those drawings he thought he deserved a little privacy for once. He compromised by leaving the door slightly ajar as he cleaned up the mess on the carpet. Vomit, snot, tears. Puddle of misery.

There was a knock on the door a couple hours later. Sam came in to talk about the "ammunition" and their best course of action. Steve didn't like talking about Bucky like he wasn't even there, but Bucky was long gone into sleep now, so maybe that was good enough. Sam and Steve stood huddled by the door, Sam's voice barely a whisper as he said, "We gotta have more proof of his condition. Pictures, videos, stuff like that. As much as we can get."

Steve didn't like this. Recording Bucky in such a state, when the consent was dubious as best? He wore doubt all over his face, so Sam quickly added, "No one has to see it except the court and maybe medical professionals, if it comes to that. We _need_ documentation, Steve, or we got nothing."

"We can't just shove cameras in his face all the time. He's already upset, we don't need to—"

Sam waved his hands and broke in, "No, no, I agree. Look, Tony's got a phone glued to his hand twenty-four-seven anyway. He agreed to record this stuff on the DL, but we wanted to run it by you first."

Steve furrowed his brow. "Why don't you run it by _Bucky_?" he snapped.

Sam looked back at him doubtfully. "We both know why, Man..." He clapped a hand on the blond man's shoulder. "Tony sent those drawings to Pepper. She said the odds aren't in our favor right now—S.H.I.E.L.D's really diggin' their heels in. She needs more evidence to bulk up our case, 'cause as far as S.H.I.E.L.D's concerned, they've done nothing wrong." He paused. "If we don't light a fire under their asses, they're not gonna move. Plain and simple."

Steve pressed his back against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest. A moment passed as he stared up at the ceiling. Finally, he let out a sigh and threw up his palms. " _Fine_ ," he said. "Fine. Just do what you need to do." Sam nodded and assured him,

"It'll pay out in Barnes' favor."

Steve crossed his arms again, biting his tongue. Bucky gave one arm to Hydra and the other to S.H.I.E.L.D—why don't they just take his dignity too? As much as Steve wanted to bring them down, Bucky shouldn't be the weapon they use to do it. He'd been used enough. The whole situation left a bad taste in his mouth. Greater good, and all that.

xXxXxXx


	5. Adventures of Captain America

**{ 5. The Adventures of Captain America co-starring Sergeant Barnes}**

 _"I got dosed by you and,_

 _Closer than most to you and,_

 _What am I supposed to do?_

 _Take it away,_

 _I never had it anyway,_

 _Take it away,_

 _And everything will be okay_

 _In you a star is born and,_

 _You cut a perfect form and,_

 _Someone forever warm"_

 _-'Dosed', Red Hot Chili Peppers_

xXxXxXx

It wasn't exactly vacation-season. The dining area was nearly barren as Sam picked up breakfast, keeping his face turned away from the few people he did see. If they were staring, it was only because he was wearing sunglasses indoors, and he realized that maybe they were drawing _more_ attention to themselves with that movie star shit.

He brought three plates for Steve and one for Tony, and the four gathered in Sam and Tony's room to eat. It got tiresome, being cooped up like this, scurrying around like rats in the walls. Bucky sat on the floor with a protein drink in his hand, sipping it little by little. Disgust on his face. Steve glanced at Tony, who casually leaned on the wall with his phone in one hand and a biscuit in the other. The phone was facing Bucky's general direction and he wondered if it was recording.

The dining table only seated two, both chairs claimed by Steve and Sam as they shoveled through their breakfast. "Huh. You're in South Carolina, Barnes," mentioned Tony, then he plugged his mouth with the rest of the biscuit. He was still fiddling with his phone.

"Checking on the signal?" queried Sam. Tony nodded.

"Yep, it's still going. S.H.I.E.L.D agents are probably swarming the state," he said. "Good. Long as they're not up _our_ asses." Steve grinned over a bite of eggs. He liked the thought of S.H.I.E.L.D wasting all those resources chasing a fake signal, though he knew it was only a matter of time before they caught on.

"What happens when they realize the signal's been tampered with?" asked Steve. "Is there any way they can correct it and come find us?" Tony gave a light shrug.

"If they do, I'll know about it."

"And then…?" Steve raised an eyebrow. Tony hesitated, then decided,

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

It wasn't the answer Steve wanted, but he could tell by Tony's flippant tone that it was the best he was going to get. A quiet choking sound pulled his attention, and he looked down to see white foam oozing from Bucky's mouth. "Oh, jeez," Steve scrambled for a napkin and kneeled, plugging Bucky's mouth with it as he dragged him into the bathroom.

Sam turned to Tony, then gestured his head towards the bathroom door. Tony nodded and casually meandered towards the open doorway, phone held before him at chest-level. He had a clear shot of the room and of Steve, who was holding Bucky's hair back as the brunet coughed up the rest of the protein drink into the toilet.

"Soooo," began Tony, "he's not gonna keel over on us, is he?" Steve shot him a glare, then it softened and he sighed,

"I don't think so. Maybe it'll get better. He's just…I think they were tube-feeding him for a long, long time." Steve frowned, guiding the brunet to the sink to rinse his mouth. He continued over the running water, "Hydra wanted to keep him dependent. He won't run away if he can't even feed himself, right?" Anger was creeping into his voice.

"Digestive atrophy," Tony suggested. "Hm. I bet S.H.I.E.L.D has some medical personnel on their team who could've patched that up. He was at their facility for over a month and they didn't think to look into that? Seems pretty high-priority to me. I mean, look at him. Poor bastard's miserable." He gestured to Bucky, spitting a mouthful of water down the drain.

Steve snapped, "They didn't care about his well-being! All they cared about was weaponizing him. They took everything. They took his childhood, his friends, his…His own mother's _face_. It's all gone." Tony chewed his lip for a moment, mulling something over that he wasn't sure should be said aloud. The phone stopped recording.

Bucky left the bathroom and flopped on the bed. The last half of his protein drink remained untouched on the floor. Steve capped it and placed it in the mini-fridge. It took a ton of calories to power Bucky's metal arm, but without it, he needed far less than Steve did. That said, Steve knew he still wasn't getting enough to sustain him. If they weren't careful, this could turn critical fast.

Tony gathered his nerve and finally blurted what was on his mind. "Hypothetically, let's say— _hypothetically!_ —that Barnes can't deal and starts to starve out. What's your plan? Should we just," he shrugged, exposing his palms, "give him back to S.H.I.E.L.D? 'Cause real talk—he could die from this."

" _Don't you think I know that_?" Steve didn't say. Instead, he crossed his arms and replied as calmly as he could manage, "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

xXxXxXx

Steve was going stir-crazy. He hadn't felt this way since he was a kid, suffering pneumonia every winter. He remembered being cooped up in the hospital for weeks, bored out of his skull the whole time. It had been Hell on Earth and he hoped Bucky didn't feel that way.

His friend was still lying on the bed where he collapsed hours ago, sleeping off and on. Steve woke him and made him finish the rest of his protein drink. It wasn't an option, it was a matter of life and death.

Bucky was keeping the drink down so far as he sat at the table with Sam. They were solving a word jumble together, though Bucky just seemed to be circling random letters and doodling shapes on the borders. At least he was engaging, Sam thought.

Steve paced this way and that. He peered out the window, then wandered to the other side of the room to fuss with the thermostat. He wanted to bash his head against the wall, right through the plaster where Bucky left a crack. They'd be paying for damages already—why not? Tony was boozing it up on one of the beds, perfectly content to be indoors for days at a time. Steve didn't understand that guy.

Bucky drew a rectangle in the upper margin of the page. He added lines and details that looked random to Sam at first, until he realized it was a gun. Bucky was drawing a rifle, with a long barrel and a scope. It was simple and crude, but it was undoubtedly a sniper rifle.

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Steve," he mumbled just loud enough to get the man's attention. Steve turned to him and he tilted his head towards Bucky as if to say 'get over here and look at this shit _now'_. Bucky paid them no mind, brow furrowed and eyes focused as he hunched over the drawing. He was adding little human-shaped figures in front of the rifle, shading their clothes in dark. They were faceless and wearing hats. Soldiers?

Steve stared at the page, jaw falling slack. To his knowledge, S.H.I.E.L.D hadn't exposed Bucky to any weaponry yet since his reset. He and Sam busted him out before they got that far. Steve wanted to say something, but what the hell could he say? A million questions stuck in his throat and he knew not a single one would get him anywhere.

A smile spread across Sam's lips. He glanced up at Steve and said, "You can take the man out of the military. Can't take the military out of the man." A little crease appeared between Steve's blond brows. He dropped to his knee between Bucky and Sam, then tapped his finger on the page and asked,

"Do you remember the military, Buck?"

 _Please. Please, God._

Steel-gray eyes flashed towards him, then back to the paper. Bucky stared at the drawing with such intensity, he almost looked angry. After a moment, a sharp breath gusted through his nostrils and he furiously scribbled out the rifle, the soldiers, and half of the word jumble. Sam gently placed a hand on his forearm and he stopped, then threw the pencil across the room. Tony flinched as it broke on the wall above his head.

Long hair draped over the table as Bucky sunk down, burying his head in his arm. His frustrated groan said it all. Turning towards Steve, Sam muttered, "I think he's _trying_. Probably got some fragments there, but I doubt it's anything he can make sense of. Not yet anyway."

"You think there's a chance he…?"

"Hard to say." Sam shrugged. "Only time will tell."

Bucky lifted his head and pushed the book of word jumbles off the table. Art was bullshit.

"Hey now," Sam stooped over and picked up the book, "I know you're frustrated and I'm sorry. But for a guy who just got his mind wiped, I'd say you're doing exceptional. Don't be hard on yourself, Man."

Bucky looked at Sam, then his gaze drifted over to Steve. He felt put on the spot. Too many eyes. He tipped his head down and let his hair obscure his face as he hummed, "Mmmmmmm…" It was a little gruff, a little angry. Steve clamped a hand on his metal shoulder. He wondered how much Bucky could comprehend of the situation. Did he even know who they were? Where they were going and what they were doing? Did he know they were on the run?

Probably not. His head must feel like pure chaos.

xXxXxXx

Sam found out Tony had been browsing the internet on his phone and nearly hit the roof. Tony assured him it was fine and he couldn't be tracked as long as he didn't post anything. Sam had to admit, he wasn't the tech expert here and he just had to take his word for it.

The whole internet thing was still foreign territory to Steve. He just knew Tony was always getting himself in trouble whenever he got drunk and posted on the Tweeter or whatever. At the moment, Tony was using the internet to show Bucky videos, and Steve hadn't seen Bucky so engrossed in something since the reset. He hardly blinked as he stared at the little phone screen in Tony's hand, sitting beside him on the floor.

Steve was looking at a travel guide at the table, but he heard a familiar theme song and knew exactly what they were watching. Back in their glory days, he and Bucky starred in a television series among other things. It was pure cheese, but they had fun and the show did well enough. It was abruptly cancelled after Bucky's "death" when he fell from the train all those decades ago. Steve couldn't bear to watch it again ever since. He had no idea it would be on the YouTube after all these years. Who wanted to watch those silly old episodes?

Bucky did, apparently. Steve couldn't see the screen from his angle, but he could see Bucky's wide eyes, the furrow in his brow, the way he sat with his nose inches from the phone. Steve vaguely remembered this episode. It opened with a bunch of Nazis plotting an attack on the White House. He grinned at the fake, over-the-top German accents.

The next scene was a shot of Captain America and his sidekick Sergeant Barnes speaking with the president. Bucky suddenly snagged the phone from Tony's hand. He bounded across the room towards Steve, plunking the phone down in front of him. He tapped his finger urgently against the screen during a scene with himself and Captain America conversing before a painted backdrop.

Steve chuckled, "Yeah, that's us, Pal! Look at those old costumes. Ridiculous." He leaned over the phone and slowly shook his head. "You met a lot of nice girls after we filmed this stuff. I doubt you remember, but…Well, if they're still alive, I bet they remember you."

Tony appeared beside them and leaned on the table. "I used to watch this crap when I was kid," he said. He turned to Bucky. "You were a hit. Everyone loved you. They loved you so much, they made these toys—these, uh…" He snapped his fingers in recollection. "Bucky Bears! We should get you one. Wonder if there's any on eBay…"

"Don't be ordering shit on eBay!" Sam's voice called from behind the bathroom door. Tony rolled his eyes and called back,

"Okay, _Mom_!" Bucky slowly kneeled to the floor and rested his arm on the table, watching the screen beside Steve. Once in a while he pointed to something—another actor or a prop—and hummed.

A smile crept onto Steve's lips. It was a heavy smile, burdened with layers of grief and uncertainty. He refused to watch this program after Bucky's death. Watching it now, he felt that familiar old revulsion in the pit of his gut. As if his best friend was still buried in an icy grave.

xXxXxXx

It was well after midnight. Tony and Sam returned to their room hours ago while Bucky lay on his bed, still marathoning " _The Adventures of Captain America_ " on Steve's phone. Steve ran out of things to do ages ago, so he'd just been loitering by the window and indulging his paranoia. Sleep was out of the question and he couldn't explain why. He just had a bad feeling, like a shiver in his spine when he thought about closing his eyes.

His keen ears picked up a rumble from down the road. Headlights beamed in from behind the trees, then a dark SUV pulled into the lot. Steve peeked through a slit in the curtain, squinting in the darkness. The headlights blinked off and the engine silenced. A bald man and a blonde woman stepped out of the vehicle.

 _Shit_. Shit shit shit—Steve jerked away from the glass like it burned him and somersaulted over the bed, startling Bucky, who looked back at him like he'd grown a third arm. Steve was suddenly tearing ass around the room, quickly and carelessly stuffing everything back into their bags.

"We gotta go," he said with quiet urgency. "Bucky, come on. Come on, c'mon!" His arm swept in a rapid 'come here' gesture and Bucky scrambled off the bed. With three bags slung over his shoulders, Steve snatched the phone from his hand and stuffed it back in his pocket.

He knew it. He fucking knew it, he just had a _feeling_. Steve slapped a ball cap on his head and seized Bucky's wrist, pulling him along as he stormed down the hall. He stopped in front of Sam and Tony's door and pounded on it harder than he meant to.

"Wayne, Richard!" He whispered sharply against the wood. Anyone could be listening. The door creaked open and there stood Sam, shirtless and groggy. Plaid pajama bottoms sagged on his hips.

"We need to leave," Steve reported quickly. "Grab Tony and meet me in the van, ASAP. Wear a hat." His urgency snapped the other man awake in an instant. Questions could wait.

"Got it." Sam nodded and disappeared behind the door. Steve crossed the hall and descended the staircase two steps at a time, Bucky following close behind.

They rounded a corner and Steve stopped for a half-second before backing behind the wall again. He grabbed Bucky's short sleeve and jerked him back too, earning a little groan of protest. "Sorry," Steve whispered. On the other side of the wall, the bald man and the blonde woman were checking in at the front desk.

Steve recognized them from the last motel. Could have been a coincidence, just a couple on a road trip, but…Who takes a road trip in the ass-end of fall? (Steve and his wayward pals did, apparently.)

They didn't _look_ like agents. The man was on the older side, a bit out of shape, and the woman was waifish and middle-aged. Then again, S.H.I.E.L.D was sharp enough to send agents no one would expect. They may not even be S.H.I.E.L.D. They could be FBI, CIA, mercenaries…Hell, they could even be Hydra. S.H.I.E.L.D weren't the only ones who wanted Bucky's head on a platter right now. Steve wasn't taking any chances.

He peeked around the corner, watched the man take a room key from the receptionist. There was another hallway they could—Nope, they were headed for the stairs. _Fuck_. Steve contemplated running back up the staircase and hiding somewhere in the hall until they disappeared. Too close. No time. They were better off just—

Steve hooked his arm around Bucky's, sticking close and obscuring him with his own body as much as possible before striding out into the lobby. His hat was pulled low and he pretended to scratch his face as he made his way to the door. If the couple looked at him, he didn't notice because he didn't dare pay them a glance.

The cold night air was a shock to their faces. A bit of frost covered the windshield of the van and Steve mentally kicked himself when he realized Sam had the keys. He frantically patted his pockets in search of his phone, only to find Bucky had pick-pocketed it from him at some point. He hadn't even noticed.

Bucky was trying to get his show to play again, but they were well out of Wi-Fi range. He frowned as he repeatedly tapped the error message with his thumb. Steve plucked the phone from his hand and began texting Tony, only because he knew he probably had his phone in his hand like it was part of his body. He slept with it beside his pillow for God's sake.

" _2 agents inside. gte out fast. hide face_ "

A hand reached up and tried to tug the device away. Steve moved it out of Bucky's reach and whispered, "Not now, Buck." In just a couple minutes, he saw the door swing open and two men in hoodies and pajama pants were hastily crossing the parking lot. They wore hats on their heads and bags on their shoulders.

Tony wobbled a few paces behind Sam, unbalanced by the luggage and probably a few drinks still in his system. He cursed as he stumbled onto his knee, Steve bolting forward to pull him back to his feet while Sam jammed the key in the driver's side lock. The four practically threw themselves into the van and Sam was backing out before Tony even closed the passenger door.

A few miles passed before Sam felt comfortable turning on the headlights. As far as they could see, no one was following them, but their hearts pounded all the same. Tony was the first to break the tense silence, twisting in his seat to look at Steve. "We saw two people in the hall, male and female. Were they…?"

"Yeah," Steve swallowed. "I recognized them. They were staying at the last place too, and I thought…I thought that was a little strange."

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you were tweekin' around by the window all night…"

Steve shrugged. "Aren't you glad I was?"

"Guess I am. Think they were S.H.I.E.L.D or what?"

"Doesn't matter. I doubt anyone tracking us down right now just wants a friendly chat. Let's stay out of their way."

"Sounds like a plan."

Tony fished his laptop out of a bag and pulled a map up on the screen. "Signal's still scrambled," he reported. "No evidence of further tampering, and S.H.I.E.L.D are the only ones who would try."

Sam shot a dirty look at him and spat, "Probably FBI then! Did you drunk-post on Twitter?"

" _No_ , I didn't drunk-post on Twitter!" Tony replied mockingly.

Steve scrubbed at his weary eyes. It was going to be a long night.

xXxXxXx


	6. Pizza Incident

**{ 6. Pizza Incident }**

 _"I would die for you,_

 _What you want to do,_

 _Oh this life I choose"_

 _-'I Could Die For You', Red Hot Chili Peppers_

xXxXxXx

The sun's glow was peeking over the horizon and the crew found themselves in Indiana. After the third time Sam drifted onto the shoulder, he admitted he was too tired to drive and Steve took over the wheel. Bucky replaced Tony in the passenger seat and once again commandeered the radio.

"Rihanna?" Tony raised an eyebrow. "We're going from Cannibal Corpse to _Rihanna_?"

Steve shrugged. "He has eclectic taste," he said. Bucky leaned his head against the cool window, staring blankly at the miles of farmland outside. Silhouettes of urban sprawl littered the horizon line.

Sam, Tony, and Bucky managed a few hours of sleep while Steve navigated them to civilization. He threw paranoid glances at the cars ahead and behind, scrutinizing each driver like a potential threat. A red light on the dashboard suddenly blinked on. Steve cursed under his breath—it was the middle of broad daylight during morning rush hour. Now was _not_ an ideal time to stop for gas, but the van was running on fumes. It guzzled fuel like a beast, they wouldn't make it another twenty minutes.

Rain was misting down from the overcast sky. Steve grabbed Tony's sunglasses from the glove box and put them on anyway. Sam and Tony were lying down in back out of sight, and no civilian these days would recognize Bucky. Not with that mop in his face.

The gas station was so packed, it was ten minutes before Steve was able to claim a pump. Each minute was paranoid agony. He snagged some cash from under the seat and softly closed the door as he left the vehicle. The sound still jolted Bucky awake, blinking the blur from his eyes as his head whipped this way and that.

Bucky found Steve several feet away, pushing a bill into a machine. It kept spitting the bill out and Steve looked irritated as he rubbed it flat against the surface and tried again. After one too many attempts, he gave up and stormed off into the little store across the lot.

Creeping out of the vehicle, Bucky forgot to—or didn't care to—close the door as he followed Steve. He was supposed to do that—follow Steve. That was the mission given to him by his new handlers, who rescued him from his previous, shittier handlers. He didn't want to fail them. He liked these guys. They put clothes on him and didn't strike him when he messed up. And he'd been messing up a lot lately.

Steve handed the cashier a hundred dollar bill for gas, added some truckers' pills and some of those horrible energy drinks to the transaction. Wouldn't do shit for him, but maybe Sam and Tony could use them.

"It's a gas-hog, should take most of it. Just keep the change," Steve told the cashier, because showing his face in here twice felt like pushing his luck. The little store was full of morning commuters getting their coffee, so crowded that Steve didn't notice Bucky until he turned around and bumped right into him.

The brunet was holding an entire bunch of bananas against his chest. Steve wasn't going to wait in that atrocious line to buy something Bucky couldn't eat anyway, so he took them from his arm and put them back on the display. "Bu—" Steve cleared his throat and corrected himself. "Uh, Nathan. Come on, back in the car." He threw an arm around his friend and led him out the door. He didn't like this. As much as he wanted Bucky to relearn autonomy...

Apparently Sam or Tony got out too. One of them was standing outside the passenger side—Steve couldn't tell which because they were leaning half their body inside the vehicle. Doing what, he didn't know, but it seemed they finally got dressed and put on real pants. "Guys," Steve sighed as he approached, "let's stay in the van, okay?"

Suddenly the figure shot up, grunting as he bumped his head on the doorframe. A tattooed face looked at Steve like a deer in the headlights, with a hooded sweatshirt pulled over his head. Patchy beard, meth-mouthed. A second later, the stranger bolted away towards the street with one of Tony's bags on his shoulder.

"Hey!" Steve barked and was hot on his heels, until the tattooed man darted between moving cars on the avenue. Traffic honked and swerved, a sedan plowing right into Steve. He rolled over the windshield and hit the street with a gasp. Dazed. Dazed, but in one piece. Someone got out of the car, was shouting something he didn't even register over the heartbeat thumping in his ears. The sunglasses were knocked off his face and he couldn't find them, but he managed to swipe the hat sitting a few feet away.

He staggered to his feet and watched the man haul ass over the median, nearly causing another accident before he reached the other side. He shoved a pedestrian out of his way and disappeared into an alley.

All in the middle of broad daylight. Either balls of steel or an addict with nothing to lose, Steve thought, and cautiously made his way across the avenue while trying not to cause any more chaos. Now _everyone_ was looking at him. Jesus Christ.

Steve ran through the alley, jumping over crates and debris the stranger probably toppled in his wake. It opened up to the ass-end of some commercial businesses where all the dumpsters and pallets were stored. Trucks and storage containers were littered about, making too many hiding places for Steve's liking.

He heard a shuffling sound to his left, like shoes on pavement. Steve whirled around and saw…Nothing. He heard the sound again and realized it was coming from the rooftop of a small office building. His eyes widened.

How the hell?

There was Bucky. _Bucky_ , shuffling around on the roof, peering over each edge in search of something. His eyes met Steve's for a brief moment, then looked away as he continued his search.

Steve took a deep breath. One problem at a time. He peeked behind dumpsters and in storage containers, finding nothing but plastic-wrapped product sitting on pallets. Getting that bag back was imperative. If it was anyone else's, he'd let it go. But that was _Tony's_ stuff—his laptop, his gadgets, all with sensitive information on them.

He heard a heavy thump from somewhere, followed by a man's pained yowl. Steve rushed back into the main lot, following the sound of yelling and cursing around the side of the office building. "Ow, ow, oooww! Get off me, man! Help! Help me, I'm being robbed!" cried the voice.

By the time Steve arrived to the scene, two workers—truckers, probably—had seized Bucky and were pulling him away from the tattooed man. Bucky wriggled and snarled in their grip as the tattooed man got back to his feet. There was a cacophony of panicked voices from them all.

"Woah, woah—"

"Easy, Man!"

"What's goin' on here?"

The tattooed man backed away and pointed an accusing finger at Bucky, clutching Tony's bag to his chest. "He tried to jump me! Lock his punk-ass up!" he cried. Steve's blood boiled. He stormed towards them and the man looked his way, eyes rounding like saucers.

"You know that's not yours, Son," snapped Steve. "Give me that bag back. _Now_." The tattooed man froze, eyes darting between Steve, Bucky, and the confused truckers. Bucky wrenched his way out of their grip and launched forward, tackling the thief to the ground once more.

"Hey, hey!" The truckers seized him again, but Bucky had the man by the throat this time and wouldn't let go for anything. Steve drew a sharp breath.

"Bu—Nate! Stop, don't kill him!" he commanded. Only then did Bucky release his throat. Not a second later, the thief struck his face with a solid right-hook that sent him topping to the side.

The man was almost to his feet. Then Steve was on him like flies on shit, driving him to the ground with a knee to his back. The thief wailed and warbled as Steve roughly jerked the bag off his body and slung it around his own. He pulled him up, then spun him around delivered swift kick to the ass, sending him stumbling off towards the alley.

"I saw a rehab place down the block! Get some help!" Steve called after him as he frantically stumbled away. The truckers looked harried, hovering about with uncertainty.

"He, uh…He broke into our car. We didn't steal anything from him." Steve decided to clarify. He hoped they believed him. Bucky kind of looked like a low-life with his stubble, his long hair, his hoodie and pajama bottoms—but he still didn't look half as scummy as the methed-out thief.

One of the truckers fumbled his phone out of his pocket and asked, "Jesus, want me to call the cops? Dude's gettin' away!" Steve helped Bucky to his feet and shook his head.

"Don't worry about it. We just need to get back on the road. Come on, uh, Nate." He patted Bucky's shoulder and led him back down the alley, pulling his cap a little lower over his eyes.

The truckers watched them go, exchanging looks of bewilderment.

"Dude, that guy looked just like Captain America."

xXxXxXx

Steve couldn't believe his fucking eyes.

There lie Sam and Tony, still sleeping like babies in the back of the van while Steve was getting run over by traffic and tackling bad guys. He startled them awake when he wrenched the sliding door open and growled, "Are you kidding me?"

"W-what, what?" Tony snorted, just sitting up when a heavy bag was tossed into his belly. He grunted and slipped back down to his elbows.

"I just wrestled that back from a thief," Steve told him. "He was rooting around in here and you guys didn't even notice. Bucky _left the vehicle_ -how could you not notice?"

Tony set the bag aside and rolled his eyes. "Well, excuse us for being human, Captain Asshole! I'm only a billionaire playboy genius, I don't have government super-juice in my veins!" Steve opened his mouth to retort, then closed it and shook his head, slamming the door shut. He gave Bucky a push towards the passenger side and the brunet quickly climbed in.

Steve picked up the gas nozzle and shoved it in the tank, but the lever clicked uselessly. The little screen read "transaction timed out – payment cancelled". He looked at the little store across the lot. All that, and he had to go in and show his face again anyway.

 _Keep the change_.

Shit.

xXxXxXx

Steve had a little tantrum in the parking lot and said some things he probably shouldn't have. He was officially too angry to drive, so Tony slammed a couple energy drinks and offered to take over until Illinois. Steve sat in the back with Sam, who guided him through some breathing exercises. Once they put enough miles between them and the station—and the incident—Steve offered an apology.

His tone was sheepish and ashamed when he said, "I'm, uh…I'm sorry, guys. For blowing up at you like that. I was out of line."

"What was it you called me?" Tony raised his eyebrows, looking back at him through the rear-view mirror. "A 'sauced-up, fat-headed, jackass? Sassy, sassy, Rogers." A red tint flushed Steve's face as he fixed his gaze to the floor.

"It slipped out," he explained. "I didn't mean it. I just…I was scared. Bucky could've gotten hurt or—or worse. And if we lost all your gadgets…"

"I agree, let's not lose my babies again," said Tony. Steve turned to the passenger seat, where Bucky sat with a paper towel pressed to his nose. The thief gave him a good sock, but despite all the blood it didn't seem broken.

"You feeling okay? I mean, after getting run over and all…" queried Sam. Steve nodded.

"A little sore, but I'm fine. I'm more worried about Bucky."

"I think he's a little tougher than you give him credit for." Sam smiled. "You guys are made of the same stuff. Well, almost. You know what I mean."

They all needed rest, but after the scare at the bed and breakfast, Tony didn't want to stop until he absolutely had to. They only paused to grab food and ate it on the road, four greasy boxes of pizza with different toppings. Sam was tasked with rolling Tony's up like a tube and feeding it to him from the passenger seat because Tony refused to touch his precious wheel with greasy fingers.

"Not like it matters. This van's already a hunk of garbage," Sam told him, and Tony retorted,

"It's _my_ hunk of garbage, okay? I _rescued_ it. Brought it back to life with my own two hands, and that makes it great." Sam chuckled through his nose, shaking his head towards the window.

Steve was finishing his fifth slice behind them. Bucky already went through a protein drink, casually barfed it up in one of the plastic bags they saved for just the occasion, and then decided he wanted pizza just a few minutes later. Steve watched him as he plucked a pepperoni off the top. He probably should have stopped him, yet he found himself silently observing as Bucky swallowed it and reached for another.

Six slices of pepperoni went down, then came back up ten minutes later. Bucky was getting pretty swift about making it into the bag, at least. Steve winced, losing his appetite as his friend coughed up the last of it, then immediately reached for more pizza. This time, Steve's hand shot out and seized his wrist like he should have done in the first place.

"Buck," he frowned, "don't. Don't do that to yourself." A scowl crossed Bucky's face and he wriggled his arm out of Steve's grip, swiping a slice of pizza and cramming it in his mouth. Steve damn near tackled him, wrenching the brunet's arm back with one hand and ripping the food out of his mouth with the other.

"Spit it out!" demanded Steve, but Bucky defiantly swallowed the mouthful. The blond man sighed and let him go. Too late now. Sam twisted around in his seat, Tony peering in the rear-view mirror. "The hell are you two doing back there?" asked Tony. Steve hesitated, then sighed,

"Bucky's eating pizza."

"Pizza? Pizza's not allowed. What did I tell you about puking in my van, Barnes?" Tony furrowed his brow. Bucky ignored him and licked the grease from his fingers. Seconds later, he lurched and the pizza spilled onto the rug.

xXxXxXx

Thanks to Bucky, Tony was forced to pull over at a department store. The old rug was rolled up and thrown in the dumpster around the back of the building, then Sam came out of the store with a new one. Bucky was sentenced to the passenger seat, where there was less trouble to be found.

He was like this in the past too, Steve recalled. Did whatever the hell he wanted just to prove a point, consequences be damned. Bucky was trying to express something again. Maybe frustration with his body. Maybe some anger towards Steve. Maybe it was a form of self-harm. Steve couldn't allow that.

Even in the passenger seat, Bucky was finding ways to be obnoxious. He fussed with the radio, cranking it up extra loud until Tony punched the eject button and popped the whole mechanism out. Now there was no radio at all. Bucky leaned back and began kicking the bottom of the dashboard, wearing a sour look on his face. Tony turned to him and snapped,

"Would you cut that shit out? 'Cause I'll toss your ass out of this van if you're gonna be like this the whole—"

"Tony…" Steve spoke up from the back. There was a certain weariness to his voice.

"I mean it!" Tony went on. "I'll leave you on the side of the road and you can hitchhike your way around, I don't give a shit." Bucky stopped kicking the dash, glaring at Tony for a long moment. Several minutes of uncomfortable silence passed between them all, Sam struggling to focus on his book while Steve solved a crossword in a newspaper.

 _Thump_!

Bucky kicked the dashboard again, hard, staring at Tony as he did. The van suddenly jerked to the right, sending Steve crashing into the wall and Sam crashing into Steve. They all lurched forward as the vehicle came to an immediate stop. Bucky's chest slammed into the dashboard because he kept removing his seatbelt until Steve finally gave up on the idea.

Steve pushed himself to his knees, looking at the driver like he'd gone insane. "What the hell, Man!" Sam exclaimed. Tony said nothing, sitting there with his arms crossed as he stared angrily at the road. They were parked on the gravelly shoulder, cars whizzing by to the left.

"You can't let him get under your skin like this, Tony," said Steve, struggling to keep his tone calm. "He's only acting out because he's frustrated."

" _He's_ frustrated?" Tony whipped around in his seat, hissing through his teeth. "We have at least three sinister organizations hunting us like animals! The woman I love is busting her ass night and day, getting death threats all on his behalf," he nodded towards Bucky, "and you're telling me _he's_ frustrated?"

"Tony, calm—" Sam began, but Steve steamrolled over his voice.

"He spent _seventy years_ as a prisoner of war! They fucked his brain so hard, he forgot how to function like a human being, and they fucked his body up so bad that he can't even keep food down! He's missing a damn arm! So yeah, he's a little _frustrated_ , Tony!" The blond man's voice escalated into a shout.

Sam pressed his lips together. He knew it was serious when Steve Watch-Your-Language Rogers was dropping F-bombs.

Tony raised his volume to match. "Fuck you, Rogers! I put everything on the line for him and he doesn't appreciate any of it! He's a snot-nosed little punk—just like you!" Steve's face flushed red. Storm clouds brewed in his sky-blue eyes and he sucked in a breath to spit poison, but Sam wasn't willing to let this escalate. He moved between Steve and Tony, planting a hand on Steve's chest and the other on Tony's shoulder.

"Guys, guys," he began calmly, "we're all tired and run-down. I know, I feel it. But you know this ain't worth it. Tony's right, we got some sinister people after us, but we won't stand a chance against them if we don't keep our shit together." He turned to Steve. "And Steve, we know you care about Bucky and we do too. We do. We just…Well, _nobody's_ as stubborn as you. We're only human, you know? We get worn out."

Steve and Tony glared at one another over Sam's shoulder. Bucky was sunk into the passenger seat, looking somewhere between sullen and anxious. Sam turned to him next and said, "I'm sorry you're feeling so miserable. I know we've kinda been acting like the Three Stooges, but we're all doing our best to help you, I promise." He tipped his head towards Tony. "Take it easy on Stark, okay? We all have to work together or this van's gonna be a crime scene before we even see Illinois. Can you be a team-player, Barnes?"

Bucky's eyes flashed towards him, contemplating for a moment. Then his gaze fell and he nodded against the back of the seat. Sam grinned and patted his shoulder. "Good," he said. "Thank you. You want me to take over the wheel, Tony?" Tony faced forward in his seat and let out a long sigh.

Then, he threw the van into drive and replied, "Not with your greasy pizza-fingers."

xXxXxXx


	7. Standing At The Bridge

**{ 7. Standing at the Bridge }**

 _"My friends are so distressed,_

 _And standing on the brink of emptiness,_

 _No words I know of to express,_

 _This emptiness,_

 _I love all of you,_

 _Hurt by the cold,_

 _So hard and lonely too,_

 _When you don't know yourself"_

 _-'My Friends', Red Hot Chili Peppers_

Tony saw the 6PM traffic report and decided to call it a night. They wouldn't be getting much further anyway. It wasn't hard to find a scummy motel in this town, and this was no doubt the worst yet. The door wobbled on its hinges, which Steve considered a massive security issue and wedged a metal folding chair under the knob.

The walls were covered in water stains, scuffs and scratches. The bed sheets smelled like BO and weed, and the carpet was threadbare in places. "How can they justify charging anyone to stay in this hole?" Tony sounded exasperated. "God, they ought to pay _us_ to stay here!"

Steve said, "It's just for tonight. Let's take off early tomorrow, put as much distance between us and our 'friends' as possible."

The motel was at least located in a populated urban area, which made it harder for enemy agents to roll up and start trouble. Didn't _stop_ them, but made it harder, and that was the best the crew could ask for right now. There were bars on the windows of their room. Steve wasn't sure if he should be concerned or grateful.

Sam called in some Chinese food delivery and they spread the feast out on the wobbly little dining table. Bucky eyeballed them enviously as he sipped his meal replacement drink. Steve picked up some different brands after the Pizza Incident, hoping he might enjoy them more. Still tasted like chalk and bullshit.

After his drink, Bucky went straight to bed. He slept a lot these days. He moved sluggishly, didn't display the strength he used to. Steve thought he was looking a little thin, a little hollow around the eyes. Settling beside him on the bed, Steve reclined with his phone in hand and tapped 'play' on a video. A familiar theme song began to play, and at this Bucky's eyes opened. He rolled towards Steve and watched The Adventures of Captain America on the screen.

The hours passed and the sun gave way to darkness. The city was loud enough, and there was no way they could sleep through Steve's silly old show on top of it. Tony tossed a pair of earbuds to Bucky and he stayed up watching, long after the others had turned in for the night.

xXxXxXx

Steve was a light sleeper. Maybe it was his time in the military that forced him to be vigilant even in sleep, or maybe it was his keen hearing that picked up every little noise that others couldn't. Either way, a sound from the bathroom woke him up as Sam and Tony slumbered on. Steve blinked as his eyes adjusted to darkness, a bit of light from a streetlamp beaming in through the blinds.

His phone was lying on the rumpled sheets where Bucky wasn't, earbuds still plugged in. He picked it up and squeezed the button on the side. Out of battery. Should have left it plugged in for Bucky, he thought groggily as he rose to his feet. Another noise came from behind the bathroom door, a wet cough. A sputter. A flush.

Bucky was sick. Nothing new there, but—

Steve turned, furrowing his brow when he noticed the garbage all over the floor. Chinese takeout boxes, torn open and strewn about. Steve picked one up and turned it over, then another. Every one licked clean. Steve let out a groan and palmed at his face. Bucky did _not_ dig their leftovers out of the trash and eat them…Except he totally did, and now he was paying the price.

 _Why_? Why was he doing this now?

Quietly toeing his way to the bathroom, Steve heard the faucet running on the other side of the door. He tapped his knuckles on the wood and whispered, "Bucky? Are you okay?"

No answer.

"I'm coming in, okay?" He warned, then slowly turned the knob and peeked inside. There sat Bucky, slumped against the counter in a vomit-stained shirt. It was the stupid " _America: Love it or Leave it_ " shirt, so Steve couldn't bring himself to care.

He _did_ care about his poor friend, however, so he stepped in to pull the dirty thing off his body, tossing it carelessly in the corner. Bucky's hair was stringy, face pale and beaded with sweat. He was quivering a bit and his teeth faintly clattered together. Steve kneeled in front of him, expression sagging in concern.

"Why did you eat that stuff? Bucky, it was in the _trash_ , you can't just…Y-you know better. You have to know better than this." The blond man shook his head slightly in disbelief. He thought Bucky was doing better and now he was suddenly trying to hurt himself. Why? _Why_?

"Ah—" Bucky choked out a sound and Steve was sure he'd vomit again. He didn't. The brunet swallowed and forced another sound, "Ahm—" Steve's brow's lowered.

"What is it, Buck?" he urged.

"Nnng…"

Bucky's face screwed up in frustration. He brought his hand up and gestured vaguely to his chest. "Ahmnng. Ahmd'nnng!" he groaned laboriously, as if his mouth was full of glue on top of the world's worst stutter. Steve listened closely, wearing a hopelessly confused look on his face as he shook his head.

"I'm sorry," Steve frowned apologetically. "I'm sorry, Pal, I can't—"

"Dynnng! Ahm dynnng!" Bucky howled, pounding his fist on his chest as if the harder he hit himself, the more Steve would understand. Tears welled in his eyes and his voice was breaking down into sobs. "Dynnng! Dynnng, dynnng, I die! I _die_! I'm dying!"

Steve felt his chest cave in. Terror seized him by the gut, his jaw fell slack and silent. Bucky repeated through his sobs, "I'm dying, dying, I'm dying…!" as he made more vague gestures with his hand, one like a stabbing-motion to his gut, then one like putting something into his mouth.

Steve shook his head. He wasn't sure he ever stopped shaking it since he walked in here. "No," he said, planting his hands firmly on Bucky's shoulders, "no, no, you're not dying. You're okay, Buddy. You just got a bellyache, we'll—"

"Uuugh!" The brunet violently shook his head in disagreement. He made another frantic eating-gesture, then tapped his metal shoulder.

Bucky looked directly into Steve's eyes and told him, " _Dying_!" The look in his eyes conveyed that he was not fucking around and Steve needed to shut up and take him seriously. Steve knew that look. Bucky never used it often in the past, but when he did, that's how he knew things were seriously dire.

A moment of silence passed. Silent, except for Bucky's ragged breathing. Steve was about to speak, then he heard the door creak behind him and turned his head with a start. Tony and Sam peeked through the doorway, looking exhausted and fearful and probably a lot of other emotions Steve couldn't identify right now.

"What's going on? Is he okay?" queried Sam, jutting his chin toward Bucky. Steve's mouth hung open for a second, and all he could manage was an uncertain croak. Bucky answered for him, voice echoing off the tiles, "I'm dying!"

Then Tony and Sam were just as frozen as Steve was. Bucky's sobs rattled his whole body and he couldn't have looked more alone in that tiny room with three other people. Steve felt like he was being sucked into a vortex of fury and heartbreak, and all he could do was reach out and pull Bucky into his arms.

Bucky leaned into him, soaking the shoulder of his t-shirt with tears and snot. He smelled like a garbage-fire, felt shaky and clammy. Christ, maybe he _was_ dying, Steve thought. Tony stepped forward and spoke cautiously, phone recording in his hand, "Maybe I'm wrong, but…I think we're at that bridge, Rogers. You wanna talk about crossing it now?"

Steve closed his eyes and pulled Bucky in tighter. No, he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to even think about it. He wanted to burn that fucking bridge. But here they were, standing before it, and Bucky needed him to make a call.

Steve rose to his feet, pulling the brunet up with him. Bucky's legs quaked and he wrapped his arm around Steve's shoulder, using him for support. He belched and a bit of bile splattered on the floor. Steve cringed and let out a deep sigh. What a fucking nightmare this was.

He guided Bucky to sit on the edge of the tub, soaked a rag before wringing it out, and began wiping the sweat and grime from him as he said, "I haven't been giving him enough credit. He _knows_ what he needs, he was trying to tell me, and I didn't listen. He's been starving to death this whole time, ever since we left the facility."

"Hm," Sam slowly nodded, "bet that's why he tried raging on that pizza. And, uh…Those takeout boxes out there, did he…?"

Steve sighed, "Yeah, those too. He's desperate. He was just trying to keep himself _alive_. God, Bucky, I'm so sorry…" Tony leaned against the wall, keeping his phone steadily focused on Bucky. He looked half-alive as Steve wiped him down.

"So liquids aren't sustaining him," said Tony, "and he rejects solids completely. What the hell was S.H.I.E.L.D feeding him?"

"Intravenous nourishment?" suggested Sam. Steve mentioned thoughtfully,

"Bucky drew feeding tubes. That's a memory. That means he _can_ keep food down, we're just not giving him the right food. We need to find out what they fed him."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "So, what? You wanna break into that facility again and grab some intel? 'Cause I think their security's gonna be a lot beefier this time around and we're a little short on hands." Steve tossed the damp rag on the counter and replied,

"We can't. But…" He paused, chewing his lip in thought. "What if someone else could? They wouldn't even have to breach the facility—not if they were tech-savvy. Bucky's files have to be on a server or something, right?"

Tony shrugged. "Most likely. But I can't hack into anything from here, not with that ancient laptop and public Wi-fi."

"I don't expect you to," said Steve. "I mean someone like…I don't know. Natasha?"

"Natasha? Yeah, good luck." Sam rolled his eyes. "You know how she feels about this whole thing. She thinks Barnes is unsalvageable, like he's due to go rogue or something. She hates him."

"But she likes Pepper!" Tony blurted, expression beaming like he just had an epiphany. "I mean, _everyone_ likes Pepper because she's an angel on Earth, but—If we can convince Pepper to convince Natasha to convince S.H.I.E.L.D to…" He trailed off, twirling his finger around. "You know what I'm getting at. My awesome girlfriend can make this work, is what I'm saying."

The weight on Steve's chest lifted ever so slightly. There was hope. He had a plan, something to hold on to. "You think Natasha can be convinced?" He asked. "Because Sam's…Not wrong. I thought she was going to turn us in when we asked her for help on this mission. She said she doesn't trust Bucky, she thinks he's dangerous."

Tony stopped the recording and waggled his phone in the air. "She might change her tune when she sees Hydra's Greatest Assassin half-naked in a motel bathroom, crying over a puddle of his own filth. Even Natasha has a heart, believe that shit or not."

xXxXxXx

It was a long night to say the least, and the crew was lagging behind that morning. They were out the door hours passed their planned departure but at least they were on the road now, the sky was clear, and Bucky was still alive. Against the odds, they were all still alive.

Steve didn't _feel_ very alive as he drove them across Missouri. He was exhausted. Anxious. Vaguely depressed. He was running on dreams, chasing a little ray of hope that everything was going to be okay and he wouldn't have to surrender his best friend to S.H.I.E.L.D just to keep him alive. He knew Bucky would rather die, but nobody wanted that—not even his enemies.

At the moment, Bucky was sleeping in the back of the van and using Steve's bag as a pillow. It had a vibranium shield inside and had to be hard as a rock, but that was what he chose. Sam offered to do a word jumble with him and Bucky opted to sleep instead, because sleeping was like being dead without dying. It made everything not hurt, kind of.

And right now, Bucky was feeling a ravenous, intense kind of hunger he hadn't felt since the Great Depression, which he remembered in body but not in mind. He remembered that hunger— _true_ hunger, when the next meal was not guaranteed—was the worst feeling in the world. Worse than bullet wounds, than electroshocks and those operations where he lie wide awake on the table as the white coats cut his body open. Fuck those things, but fuck hunger more.

His new handlers were not maintaining him properly. His previous handlers were much more competent. He was going to die. That was okay. He still liked these handlers better.

But if he died, he wouldn't see Steve anymore. Steve was his favorite and he was supposed to follow him. He thinks he might have known him once before, a very long time ago, during a very old mission that he'd long since forgotten. They kept doing shit to his head, his previous handlers did. Doing shit that made him forget things he didn't want to forget. He used to know things, he knows that he knew. But what did he know?

He couldn't let himself die, Bucky decided. He was supposed to follow Steve. That was the mission.

xXxXxXx


	8. Team-Player

**{ 8. Team-Player }**

 _"The more I see,_

 _The less I know,_

 _The more I'd like to let it go"_

 _-Snow, Red Hot Chili Peppers_

xXxXxXx

"Looks like Barnes' signal made its way to Texas. Yee-haw…" reported Tony. He was hunched over his laptop on the couch while Steve heated a can of soup on the stove. This hotel offered suites with a kitchenette and two separate bedrooms, along with a tiny shred of normalcy. It almost didn't feel like they were on the run. Almost.

It was the off-season and the place obviously wasn't doing well. It was understaffed, in disrepair. Tony noticed the security guard's post was dusty and unmanned, and assumed it would stay that way until summer or until this place went under. Whichever came first.

This hotel was still leagues above the dumps they'd stayed at so far. Sam took a long, honest-to-God shower without worrying about the water going cold after ten minutes. They could prepare their own food. They were way up on the third floor with a great view of any potential threats.

Steve prayed that nosy agents wouldn't show up and ruin this. He hoped they could stay a while because Bucky desperately needed rest and they were all so sick of the road and the fear, the uncertainty. No word yet from Pepper or Natasha, and they didn't have much time. Steve pulled the pot off the stove and divided the soup into four bowls.

It was worth a try. Not like Bucky had anything to lose at this point as he stood on Death's doorstep. He was lying on the couch beside Tony, legs hooked over the armrest, wearing sweats and the " _I want superpowers!_ " shirt that Steve hated so much. Steve helped Bucky to sit up and saw the wobble in his movement, the glazed-over look in his eyes. His arm was trembling, so Steve held the bowl to his lips for him.

Bucky compliantly drank the broth down. Steve went through the trouble of straining out any solid pieces and knew broth alone wouldn't sustain him, but it was better than nothing and he usually kept it down. Might buy them some time while Natasha made her decision— _and she better make it fucking quick_ , said Steve's bitter thoughts.

Sam picked up a kid's magazine at their last fuel stop. It was full of crosswords, riddles, mazes, and plenty of other things to distract them from the horror of being hunted, plus the activities were closer to Bucky's level as his brain patched itself back together.

He was still lying there in a daze when Sam approached him a couple hours later with the magazine and some pencils. Sam felt he had to keep him engaged or Bucky's misery would consume him—and then Sam's boredom would consume _him_. Bucky really didn't have the energy mentally or physically, but he complied because he promised Sam he would be a team-player from now on and he liked Sam the most, just after Steve.

Bucky decided he liked Tony the least. The guy smelled like alcohol, drove like a maniac and talked too much, always talking and talking, and sometimes he said asshole things to Steve and Bucky sure didn't appreciate that shit, but they were his handlers and he was in no place to tell them what to do. They told _him_ what to do because he was a tool, their weapon, their asset.

That's how it worked. That's how it had always worked for as long as he could remember.

So Bucky was a team-player. His skull felt like a cinderblock on his neck, so he leaned his head on Sam's shoulder as they made their way through a candy-maze. It was kind of like secretly navigating through a dark ventilation system. Bucky didn't know where that thought came from.

After they survived the maze, Sam turned the page and found something tucked in the book's spine. It was a thin, vertical sheet of little graphics: hearts, dinosaurs, stars, skulls and bones…

"Ah, tattoos!" Sam grinned and plucked the strip out, turning it over in his hands. Each graphic was perforated so they could be torn out separately. He patted the strip against his arm and explained, "They go on your skin until you wash 'em off. Which one do you want?"

Bucky stared at the sheet with unusual intensity. Was this a test? Would he be graded depending on what he chose? What was the punishment if he chose incorrectly? Fuck. He didn't remember his training for this. The star was jumping out at his brain, so he pointed to it. It was gold with two eyes and a big smile.

Sam left for a moment. When he came back, he had a wet rag and he tore the star away from the rest of the sheet. He turned Bucky's hand so his palm faced upwards, pressed the graphic to the inside of his forearm, then held the rag over it. "We gotta wait a minute for it to stick," he said, so they waited.

Sitting at the table in the dining area, Steve watched them from the corner of his eye. There was a window beside him that looked out to the parking lot, which he'd been monitoring for the last couple hours. It was easy to keep track of the guests here. This place wasn't exactly bustling—the parking lot was like a graveyard.

A little over a minute passed and Sam carefully peeled the paper square away from Bucky's arm. The star graphic was left behind, stuck on like paint. "Heeey, that came out great!" Sam said and smiled at him. Bucky liked Sam's smiles, they were warm and genuine; unlike Steve's, which were always a little sad for some reason, and that made Bucky feel sad too.

The brunet felt his lips curl. He wasn't trying to do it, it just happened. He didn't remember his face doing this before. Sam patted his shoulder and then gave himself a tattoo as well. It was a four-legged green dinosaur and it was decorating his bicep. "Lookin' pretty badass over there, Guys," Tony said from the table. He sat across from Steve with his laptop, phone, and a few other gizmos Steve couldn't identify.

"You want one?" queried Sam. Tony shot him a sarcastic little smile.

"I'll pass."

"You want one, Steve?" Sam examined the sheet again. "We got hearts, Princess Ariel, Mickey Mouse, we got…Heh, we got some jolly rogers! Want a jolly roger, Rogers?" Bucky saw another sad smile cross Steve's face as he replied,

"I don't feel much like a Jolly Rogers right now..."

Bucky furrowed his brow. Stupid Steve. Why was he such a bad handler? He didn't know what was good for Bucky or even himself. Bucky wished he was an asshole too so he could hate him and his feelings wouldn't be so confusing. But even though Steve was a terrible handler, he wasn't cruel or malicious. Incompetent, but a damn good guy.

It was _arrogant_ for an inhuman tool like Bucky to assume he knew better than his handlers. Those thoughts weren't even allowed, but he found himself breaking the rules anyway and approaching Steve with the rag and the sheet of tattoos. If this made Bucky smile, maybe it would make Steve smile too and then he'd stop looking so fucking sad all the time.

Steve silently watched as Bucky kneeled beside him, trapping the sheet under his toe as he tore out a jolly roger graphic. Steve's arm was resting on the table, so he placed the graphic on top of his forearm and held the rag over it for exactly sixty seconds. The blond man waited, didn't resist, didn't even yell at Bucky or strike him for being such an arrogant, disobedient asset.

Setting the rag aside, Bucky slowly, gingerly peeled the paper back. The ink caught the hair on Steve's arm and came out cracked and imperfect. Bucky's stomach dropped in horror. That's why Sam had put his on the _other_ side of his arm, the side with no hair. He watched Sam do it and he still fucked up. He failed and he was being arrogant and he was going to be—

"Looks good! I like it. Thanks, Buck," said Steve, and Bucky looked up to see a big flash of white teeth. Steve turned his arm around, examining the tattoo from different angles. "These things have come a long way, huh? Way better than the ones we had when we were kids."

Sam's eyebrows jumped. "They had those back then?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah, you'd get them with bubblegum sometimes. I remember," he chuckled a little and shook his head, "Bucky and I, we had a bunch of them and we stuck 'em all over ourselves after school. My mom was ticked, she said I looked like a delinquent and made me wash them off. I think Bucky even got whooped for it, I'm not sure. Mrs. Barnes blamed me, said I was a bad influence."

He paused, gaze falling. Sadness crept back into his smile. "Man, that was so long ago…"

God damn it! Bucky wanted to slap him with the metal arm he didn't have. Slap those storm clouds off his face, grab him by the shoulders and shake that sad fool until he was happy like he deserved to be. He didn't know what else to do, didn't know how to make him smile like Sam smiled.

Bucky was dumb. That's why he was a weapon and not a handler.

xXxXxXx

The hunger pain didn't really feel like pain anymore. It just…Was. It was one with Bucky, consumed his whole being until he was no longer Bucky. He was Hunger. But it didn't feel like hunger anymore either, it just felt like dying. Bucky was dying. That's how he felt as he lay in the bathtub. The water was getting cold.

A yellow rubber duck floated by his knee. Bucky watched it through one eye because he couldn't muster the energy to open both. The duck made a high-pitched squeak when it was squeezed. Steve left it there and told him to squeeze it if he needed help, then he left Bucky alone in the bathroom and Bucky wished he hadn't. It was very lonely in here with the tiles that echoed every sound, with no windows to the outside.

Bucky was sufficiently decontaminated and he should have reported to his sleeping quarters some time ago. He knew that, but he was struggling to make his body move. He fell asleep—or passed out, he wasn't sure—in the tub for a while and now he had no idea how long he'd been in here.

Someone tapped on the door, then a voice called, "Barnes? You wanna wrap it up in there? Some of us have functioning digestive systems, you know…"

It was Tony. Bucky groaned a little and forced himself to sit up. He felt like sand bags were hanging off his body and the room was spinning so he shut his eyes, shaking his head to shake the dizziness out.

He planted one foot down and hoisted himself up. His body wobbled, then he grunted as his knee hit the floor of the tub, he collapsed to the side and water sloshed out onto the tile. Bucky lay there panting, sore and out of breath from doing a whole lot of nothing. The rubber duck floated by and he grabbed it, squeezing it repeatedly.

The door opened nearly an instant later and there was Steve, looking concerned as he observed Bucky's awkward position and all the water on the floor. "I got ya," he said, and he grabbed Bucky under the armpits and pulled him to his feet. Bucky fell against him as he staggered out of the tub. He was soaking Steve's nice blue shirt with the buttons but his own legs refused to support him. They were not being team-players.

Bucky sat on the edge of the tub as Steve dried him and helped him into his pajamas. Steve was always doing stuff for him because his previous handlers decided he only needed one arm. Bucky thought that was stupid, but he was just a weapon so what did he know anyway?

Bucky missed it, that metal arm. He was more capable and independent when it was part of him. Now Steve had to do all this extra maintenance on him that he should have been doing himself instead of wasting his handler's time. Steve didn't seem angry though, just a little sad like always as he hooked Bucky's arm around his shoulder and half-carried him to bed.

Sam returned from the Laundromat earlier, and now all the clothes that Bucky soiled with dirt and vomit and sweat were clean again. He had new shirts too which Steve bought for him. These shirts were plain and some had buttons, but none of them had pictures or words.

Tony and Sam's bed was in the other bedroom. This room had a dresser, a closet, and a chair in the corner. It almost looked like a real apartment. Still a nicer place than Steve and Bucky's old flop, Steve thought as he dragged the chair over to the window. It was dark, but the parking lot had lights here and there so he could still see most of it.

Steve sat there for hours, resting his arm on the windowsill with his phone in the other hand. Tony installed some game on it with colored jewels that he was getting a little addicted to, but he still threw a vigilant glance toward the window every couple minutes. Once in a while he looked at Bucky too, lost in a deep sleep on the bed. He always slept on top of the blankets, just wouldn't tolerate being under them no matter how cold it was.

The hours passed until 2:30AM was staring Steve in the face, according to the clock on the side table. As much as he wanted to stand guard all night, Steve knew he'd be no use to anyone tomorrow if he didn't sleep. He placed the phone on the side table and slipped into bed, under the covers because it was the middle of November and he wasn't a freak like Bucky.

He rolled over to face his friend, staring into his back, his mop of long hair, the back of his bare feet curled up near his thighs. Bucky didn't snore anymore, Steve realized. He remembered chucking a pillow at him in the middle of the night when they lived together because he'd wake Steve constantly, but now he didn't make a sound.

An assassin had to achieve perfect silence, Steve supposed, and he shuddered to think how Hydra managed to beat that lesson that into him. Poor Bucky. Poor fucking Bucky. Steve sighed deeply into his pillow, throwing an arm over his head. His eyes were stinging and his chest felt heavy.

He wouldn't care if Bucky snored. He could snore like a chainsaw all night, every night, and he'd never chuck a pillow at him again as long as it meant he was alive. Steve didn't know how much longer they had before his friend's body consumed itself. Neither of them had a normal metabolism. A week? A day? An hour from now?

 _I'm dying!_

Steve couldn't bear to open his eyes as he did it, but he reached forward and his hand found Bucky's cold metal shoulder, then it slid down and he wrapped his arm around his middle. He kicked off the blankets and inched closer, pressing his body against the brunet's back and burying his face in all that damn hair.

"You're not allowed to leave me again," Steve mumbled against his head. "Don't do it. Don't you dare." Bucky lie still and silent, eyes scanning the darkness ahead. He didn't like this—Steve was way too sad. He was at Maximum Sadness. Bucky knew because he heard the quiver in his voice, the way he sniffled, knew he was trying very hard not to cry.

And here was Bucky, a dumb weapon that was only capable of hurting, maiming, killing. That's why Steve was crying, because he hurt him somehow. He wasn't supposed to hurt his own handler. That was the worst crime ever, and Steve wasn't even going to punish him because Steve was the worst handler ever.

Bucky sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and hesitated. Then he spoke.

"No," he said. "No. Nonono." He shook his head to emphasize, trying to get the point across to Steve that he was trying his hardest to stay alive and if he died, well, it wasn't from a lack of effort, so please don't punish his corpse.

He wanted to say more—so much more—but his brain and his mouth were not being team-players. They were being assholes. He felt like there might have been a time when they weren't assholes and turning his thoughts to words wasn't so difficult, but he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything anymore.

And now Steve was fucking losing it, letting out a big ragged sob against Bucky's neck as he pulled him tighter. His whole body quaked with grief. Bucky was so lost. This was so alien and terrible. He felt his own hand reach up and hold on to Steve's around his middle. He felt Steve squeeze his hand and he squeezed back.

Bucky thought of a forest in Germany, all white with snow. Soldiers around a fire that couldn't burn hot enough. Two of the soldiers together in a tent that wasn't big enough, shivering under a blanket that wasn't warm enough. They held eachother just like this. They kept eachother warm in the bitter cold and they survived to feel the sun on their faces the next day.

Bucky didn't know where that thought came from.

xXxXxXx


	9. Top-Secret Assassin Chow

**{ 9. Top-Secret Assassin Chow }**

 _"Don't be afraid to show your friends,_

 _That you hurt inside,_

 _Pain's a part of life,_

 _Don't get behind your false pride,_

 _It's a lie,_

 _Your lie,_

 _Don't slip away and don't forget,_

 _I'll give you more than you can get"_

 _-'Knock Me Down', Red Hot Chili Peppers_

xXxXxXx

Steve didn't remember falling asleep. He woke with damp, sticky eyes and an arm wrapped around Bucky. He could feel the brunet's chest rise and fall under him as he slept. Still breathing, still holding on. Disentangling himself, Steve sat up and dragged a palm over his face. Orange light was beaming through the slits in the blinds. Traffic hummed faintly in the distance.

Something else hummed just then, followed by a beep. Steve turned to the side table. A green light was blinking on his phone—a text message. He furrowed his brow and cautiously picked up the device like it might bite him. Who the hell had this number besides Tony and Sam? They were never awake this early anyway.

Steve tapped the new message from an unregistered number.

" _mashed banana, mix with water + 1/4 cup whey protein powder per banana. 3x daily dose of multivitamin_."

Just as Steve finished reading the text, the phone vibrated in his hand and another popped up from the same number.

" _ruined my manicure getting that._ _you owe me_ "

Natasha! That beautiful, wonderful, terrifying woman—She came through! Steve felt his limbs turn to spaghetti and he collapsed back onto the bed, planting a big smooch on the phone screen before letting it fall to the floor. His other hand covered his face and he wasn't sure if he should start sobbing or laugh maniacally at the sky.

Bananas. Fucking _bananas_. There were bananas at every gas station and store they hit, staring them right in the face the entire time Bucky was being crippled from hunger. Bucky had even _showed them to_ _Steve_ at one point and Steve _ignored him_ because apparently Steve's head was full of rocks.

That's how he felt anyway, as he lay there exasperated at how absurd this was. _Bananas_.

"Bucky!" The blond man shook his friend's shoulder and Bucky rolled over to face him, squinting in the light. Steve was smiling down at him, all white teeth and crinkled eyes and golden bed-head. A real smile, like Sam's. "We got it figured out. You're gonna be okay, don't worry!"

Bucky looked back at him, groggy and doubtful. Steve landed a heavy pat on his shoulder and smashed his lips against Bucky's head, leaving a big kiss before scrambling off the bed and bounding through the door.

xXxXxXx

Sam made a quick trip to the corner store down the block. They already had the protein powder, so at least they'd been doing that right. This whole time, all Bucky's suffering could have been prevented with bananas and vitamins. Who knew? Not them, obviously, but now they held S.H.I.E.L.D's top-secret nourishment plan for their master assassin and Bucky would never have to come crawling back to a sinister handler again.

Even Bucky hadn't known exactly what that goop being forced down his throat was. The bananas in the gas station _smelled_ familiar though, so he presented them to Steve but Steve rejected them because he was a smart handler and Bucky was a dumb weapon. Or maybe it was the opposite. It wasn't Bucky's place to think those things, or to think at all.

Steve chopped up six bananas on a paper plate and then mashed the pieces with a spoon. He scraped the paste into a bowl with some water and protein powder, stirring it all together into a thick mush before serving it to Bucky at the table. He shook three big vitamins from a bottle into his hand and laid them out beside the bowl with a glass of water. If Bucky could keep it down, that was roughly 700 calories for breakfast. Acceptable numbers for a super-soldier.

"There you go, Pal," he smiled, jabbing a plastic spoon into the bowl. Bucky wasted no time seizing that spoon and shoveling the mixture down. This stuff used to go through tubes down into his throat and he never actually got to taste it before. It was…Totally disgusting, he decided, but he was so hungry that the taste didn't matter.

When his bowl was empty, Bucky swallowed the vitamins one at a time because Christ, were they huge. The mash was gone, the vitamins were gone, the water was gone and he still felt like he could eat, but Sam said that was all the bananas they had left at the corner store and they'd have to hit an actual grocery store to get more.

"It actually makes sense if you think about it," Sam said to Steve. "You eat bananas when you can't keep anything else down. They have tons of vitamins, they're cheap, they're portable, no cooking required. If S.H.I.E.L.D wanted to make him dependent on any one food, bananas weren't a bad choice."

"Yeah, but…" Steve made a face of mild disgust. "I feel sorry for him. Bananas today don't taste like the ones we had growing up. They're _gross_ now! I haven't been able to find a good one since they unfroze me."

Sam let out a hearty laugh, "Hate to break it to you, Man, but the ones you're used to went extinct. You 'n Bucky just have to deal with our nasty future-bananas."

Steve quirked an eyebrow. "Extinct? What—did they hunt them to extinction?"

Sam laughed again, "Sure, we'll go with that."

xXxXxXx

"Buckle up, Boys," said Tony, "and get ready for an exhilarating, balls-to-the-wall journey through Kansas." Steve slid beside him into the passenger seat and grinned,

"Maybe we'll get lucky and see Dorothy."

"If we're _really_ lucky, maybe we'll see some corn," added Sam. He reclined in back next to Bucky, a cardboard packing-crate of bananas sitting between them.

Sam plucked a banana out and began to peel it as the van left the parking lot. Steve felt a sense of loss as he watched the hotel disappear behind them. It had been so _comfortable_. Still, it was best not to get too comfortable when they had dogs on their trail. Harder to hit a moving target and all that.

Sam refused to connect to the internet on his phone like Tony. It just felt like tempting fate, so he entertained himself with more primitive mediums. He finished his banana and pulling a marker from his bag, he drew two eyes and a little moustache on the peel. He held it upside-down from the bottom, wiggling it as he sang, "Nannerpuss, nannerpuss…"

A snort exploded from Bucky's nose and he slapped his hand over his mouth, feeling teeth against his palm as he smiled real big—bigger than he ever had before, he was pretty sure. Sam was smiling too, setting the peel on the floor and wiggling one of its "tentacles" to wave at Bucky.

Steve looked utterly confused as he turned around in his seat and queried, "Nannerpuss?"

"You never saw that commercial?" asked Sam. Tony mentioned,

"I think he was still a Capsicle for that Superbowl."

"Oh man, it was great," explained Sam. He pointed to Bucky and chuckled. "Look, Bucky knows. He appreciates my Nannerpuss."

Bucky's body was doing something like a bunch of hiccups and he couldn't stop. He was laughing, he realized, which wasn't allowed before. But he wasn't being punished, so the rules must be different here. "Alright, say goodbye to Nannerpuss," said Sam, then he rolled down the window and tossed the peel onto the side of the country road.

Tony mock-gasped, "Samuel Wilson! Are you _littering_? In front of Jesus and Captain America?" Sam rolled his eyes.

"It's food, _Richard_. Birds eat those things."

"Don't call me Richard in my own van, _Wayne_."

"Whatever you say, _Dick_."

Tony paused. "You know, Richard's fine," he decided.

The miles went by much faster than the hours, it felt like. What a boring drive. Everything was flat and corn and sky, Bucky observed. He was the only one bothering to observe the sights as Steve occupied himself with his jewel-game and Sam filled in a new crossword.

Bucky kneeled before the side window, watching the cornfields pass by. He pressed his nose to the glass and squinted when he saw someone crucified in the middle of a field—but no, it wasn't a person. It was a fake person, a scarecrow. He thought about the scarecrow coming to life, hair the color of straw with no brain at all. Kind of like Steve.

Bucky had been having so many strange thoughts like that lately, more and more every day. He didn't used to think so much, or at all. He remembered when he didn't have opinions, when he accepted everything that happened to him because his handlers said he was a machine, a tool, a weapon, and those things did not think or feel.

Steve and Sam and Tony—they wanted him to have opinions. They asked "Are you okay?" and "What color do you want?" and Bucky had to make decisions to please them. It was all very overwhelming sometimes. They wanted him to be a person and he was pretty sure that he wasn't one, but if that was his objective then he had to try to be.

Something beeped from Tony's pocket. He began fishing his phone out and Steve scolded, "Are you really gonna text and drive?" Tony rolled his eyes and tossed the phone in Steve's lap.

"God, you're a goody two-shoes," he said. "Read it to me then."

Steve tapped the message and paused, furrowing his brow at the long line of gibberish on the screen.

"Uh, it doesn't say anything. It's just numbers and letters," he reported. A brief silence passed between them. Then Tony muttered,

"Uh-oh."

Sam craned his neck toward the front and queried, "What's 'uh-oh'?"

"Uuuugh," Tony groaned, turning the wheel. The van drifted to the shoulder and came to a stop. "Wilson, pass the laptop, please." Sam did so without question, unzipping the leather bag and carefully pulling out the flat, red device. The others waited in silence as he flipped it open and tapped on the keys.

Tony sighed after a moment, thumping his head back against his seat.

"What? What's going on?" blurted Steve. Tony held up his palm and shook his head as he explained,

"Okay, so that tracking signal? It's being tampered with." He glanced back at the screen. "Doesn't look like they unscrambled it yet—it's just kind of jumping all over the place—but!"

Tony held up a finger, eyebrows sagging slightly. "We're standing at another bridge here. They _will_ succeed eventually, and we need to start thinking about our next move when they do." Steve's gut was twisting. He shot a glance back at Bucky, staring between them all and looking equally as nervous.

Steve began, "So when they unscramble it, it'll lead them straight to Bucky? How long do we have?"

"Hell, I don't know." Tony shrugged. "Couple days? Couple minutes? S.H.I.E.L.D's hackers are like a box of chocolates—sometimes you get a chocolate, and sometimes you get a piece of shit."

"I don't think that's how the saying goes…" mumbled Sam.

"And the signal's coming from that chip in his arm," Steve clarified. "Is there any way to disable it?"

Tony replied flatly, "Not remotely. Only way to stop that signal is to destroy the chip completely, and S.H.I.E.L.D makes some burly-ass chips. Like, I'm talking water-proof, fire-proof, impact-proof…We're better off just digging it out of Barnes' arm and leaving it behind."

Steve's eyes darkened under his brow. He didn't like the sound of that one bit. "Is it possible to remove it without hurting him?" he asked. He felt like he already knew the answer. Tony's mouth stretched a little and he answered slowly, choosing his words carefully.

"Wellll…None of us are medical professionals, and we can't exactly take him to the hospital for something like this. You know better than anyone that painkillers, anesthetic—shit like that—doesn't work on him. So, uh…I'm gonna say no, it's gonna be a hack-job and it's gonna hurt like a bitch."

Steve's eyes rounded. Tony saw his expression and quickly added, "It won't kill him though! I can promise that much. We just—well, I can almost guarantee it's more than skin-deep. They probably attached it to the muscle. But if I recall correctly, that chip model is pretty small and removing it shouldn't be too traumatic to his anatomy. I think. Pretty sure!"

Another silence fell over the van, long and agonizing. Tony drummed his fingers against the side of his laptop, chewing his lip. Finally a big sigh came from Steve and he shook his head disapprovingly. "There has to be another way. He already had his spine cut open and spent the last several days starving to death! He can't take any more trauma."

Tony's head slumped against the back of his seat. "What do you want me to do, Rogers?" he snapped. "We can leave the chip alone and wait for S.H.I.E.L.D to come fuck with us, or we can remove it and fuck with them. Those are our options, so make a call."

Bucky's gaze shifted from Steve to Tony, then fixated on his arm. His smiling star-tattoo was faded and chipping away, despite how careful he was in the bath to save it. Steve set his jaw tight and stared at the barren road ahead, breath steadily gusting from his nostrils.

Of course _he'd_ be the one to rip Bucky open again—not that he trusted anyone else to do it, but it wasn't something he was chomping at the bit to do. "It's going to hurt him…" Steve said, and his voice sounded smaller and more pathetic than he cared for. Tony shrugged in an exhausted kind of way.

"It'll be a little pinch compared to what S.H.I.E.L.D did to him."

"That's his only arm…"

"So it's better than removing it entirely like they did, right?"

"He won't understand…"

"Would you rather see him dragged back to the facility? Because he _really_ won't understand that," Tony said with finality. Steve turned to the window and rolled his eyes. The only thing he hated more than Tony being wrong was Tony being right.

Tony watched the blond man drag a hand over his face and groan, decided to show a little mercy and suggested, "Look. We don't have to do it right this second. But whenever they crack that signal, it's go-time. Fair?" Steve hesitated, then nodded.

"Fine."

xXxXxXx


	10. Stab it and Grab it

**{ 10. Stab it and Grab it }**

 _"You don't know my mind,_

 _You don't know my kind,_

 _Dark necessities are part of my design,_

 _Tell the world that I'm falling from the sky,_

 _Dark necessities are part of my design"_

 _-'Dark Necessities', Red Hot Chili Peppers_

xXxXxXx

The crew shuffled places in the vehicle, Sam taking the wheel with Tony beside him, and Steve in back struggling to explain the situation to Bucky. Steve looked very sad and nervous. They all kind of did, Bucky observed.

"Bucky," began Steve. He already felt like he'd exhausted all the air in his lungs, but he continued, "I know you've already been through a lot here. I'm really sorry about that. But, um, t-there's a tracking device in your arm," he gently took Bucky's wrist in his hand, tapping on his forearm, "and we have to take it out. It's…It's probably going to hurt."

Bucky furrowed his brow. Yes, he gathered all that from the conversation earlier. Why was Steve wasting time telling him this? He should have a scalpel in his flesh by now. Steve continued after a pause, "Are you okay with that? We don't have much of a choice, but…I don't want to do anything until you feel ready." He owed Bucky that much, he felt.

The brunet looked at his wrist for a moment, then held it out towards Steve and said, "Cut." He swallowed, lurching as if each word was a struggle, "Get it out." A frown creasing his face, Steve reluctantly nodded.

"Okay. I promise, I'll be as careful as I can. The last thing I want to do is hurt you, Pal."

Bucky sat cross-legged, resting his chin on his fist. Why did Steve care so much about his pain? No one else had in the past. They cared so little, he was punished for screaming in agony until he learned not to feel anymore. Now these handlers taught him to feel again, like a person, only to deliver pain. What bullshit. What incompetence.

Finding a place to stay was a new challenge in itself. There was going to be blood and probably screaming as well. People were nosy. They liked to call the cops about things like that. So after a couple hours of driving and arguing and searching for suitable motels, it was determined that a motel was out of the question anyway and they'd just have to make it work elsewhere.

Parking was another challenge. Where to park, where they wouldn't be seen or heard, that wasn't part of someone's property? Still, nothing but flat dirt and corn and sky all around. Wilting rows of dent corn sat neglected on the sides of the road, left to rot away on its own.

That was the best they could do when Tony's phone beeped again and notified him that the signal was successfully unscrambled. S.H.I.E.L.D had some chocolates up their sleeve, apparently.

"Ready or not, it's operation time," announced Tony. "Pull over. Right here is fine." Sam shot him a doubtful look from the driver's seat.

" _Here_?"

"This place is abandoned, look at it. It's the best we can ask for." Tony gestured out the window towards the corn field and the decrepit barn in the distance.

The van was parked on the shoulder once more in a place that looked exactly like the place they parked two hours ago, and if Steve didn't know better he'd say Kansas was some kind of infinitely looping limbo. The crew of four gathered their makeshift supplies and took a long, terrible walk through the corn stalks.

When the sound of traffic grew faint enough, Sam laid a couple towels down on the packed earth as Steve cleaned his hands with alcohol. Bucky laid across the towels, shirt and pants removed as not to get blood on them. "Looks like we're sacrificing him to the devil or something," mentioned Tony.

"You know, you're not making this any easier…" Steve sighed and tossed the used alcohol wipes to the ground. Tony held up his hands.

"Sorry," he apologized, then looked down at Bucky and said, "Alright, Buckaroo. I know you wouldn't hit Rogers on _purpose_. But just in case, we're gonna hold you steady. Good to go?"

Bucky swallowed and nodded, looking up all their noses. Then Tony sat on his legs and Sam laid with his arms across Bucky's torso, one hand planted on his bicep. Steve set out his box of supplies, kneeling beside Bucky's arm. He swabbed the skin with alcohol, washing away the star-tattoo but leaving the tiny "x" Tony marked; the exact location of the tracker, according to his chip-detector.

Steve rolled up a wash rag and Bucky bit it between his teeth. Bucky didn't know why he knew to do that—it was like muscle memory from a routine he couldn't recall. Nostalgic in a sick way. Then Steve pulled on the white disposable gloves and picked up the long-bladed X-Acto knife, because they didn't know where the hell to find a scalpel and didn't have time to get it even if they did.

Deep inhale, slow exhale. Steve steadied his hand with the tool, bracing his other on Bucky's wrist. "On three, Buck. Deep breaths, okay?" Bucky's fingers twitched. He wanted to slap Steve for dragging this out like he was. And God, was he ever hesitant. Steve seemed to freeze, staring down at Bucky's arm like he was staring into a vortex. Inhale, exhale.

"Just stab it 'n grab it, Rogers!" snapped Tony. Steve shot him a filthy look, then turned back to Bucky and took one more deep breath.

"Okay. Alright. One…" He licked his lips. "Two…"

Bucky closed his eyes, sucked in a breath through his nostrils and prepared to let it out on three. An eternity passed (or at least it felt that way) and three never came. He opened his eyes and saw Steve frozen before him, knife point trembling an inch from Bucky's skin. His face flushed pale as a corpse.

"Steve—" Sam began, but Steve dropped the knife on the towel and bolted upright as he muttered,

"I can't! I can't. I just…" He let out a frustrated growl and palmed at his face with both gloved hands. "Oooh, God…" If Tony weren't sitting on his legs, Bucky would've probably kicked Steve in the shin. Why must he suffer because of this incompetence? The anticipation was worse than the incision would ever be.

Sam lifted himself off of Bucky and approached Steve, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I know it's hard," he said. "I know it's the last thing you want to do, but it's the lesser of two evils. If we don't get that chip out quick, we might—"

"Woah, woah, woah! Barnes! What the fuck— _no_!" Tony shouted, and Sam and Steve whipped around to see him roll off of Bucky's legs as Bucky bit into his own arm like a feral animal, snarling in pain while blood gushed around his lips. If these idiots were going to jeopardize the mission, it was up to Bucky to see it through.

Steve and Sam piled on him in a flurry of limbs. Sam planted both hands on Bucky's chest and pressed him back into the dirt while Steve seized his bloody arm and pulled, but the brunet's teeth were sunk deep into the skin and muscle, ripping and tearing as he shook his head. Wherever Steve pulled his arm, Bucky's head came with it.

"Bucky, stop! Let go! _Let go_!" Steve begged. Bucky knew he shouldn't disobey his handler, but god damn it, Steve was so _stupid_. He was starting to realize that Steve probably wouldn't punish him anyway and that gave him little incentive to obey, so he jammed his tongue deep into the split flesh and felt it—a hard bit of metal against his pallet.

"Please! Don't do this! Just let go!" The blond man grunted, pressing one hand to Bucky's forehead with the other on his arm, trying to separate the two. Bucky was screaming in agony and it was all muffled against his arm, sputtering through the bloody mess. Finally, he loosened his bite and his head was shoved against the towel, blood splattering on his face and hair and all over the white fabric below.

Steve's gloves were red and glistening as he kneeled there, panting and looking at Bucky like he'd turned into a werewolf. Bucky's arm looked like it was bitten by one, skin torn away from muscle in a 4-inch gash. Christ, the blood. The _stench_ of it.

Bucky's blood didn't smell or even look normal. It was blackish, reeked of motor oil and metal. Steve figured the components of that metal shoulder probably extended well into his torso, might have even been rigged up to his circulatory system.

Bucky lie there on his back in a daze, eyes wide, forehead beaded with sweat. His mouth was slick with blood, smeared up his nose and dribbling down his neck. No one could find words or action. Steve held Bucky's forearm in his grip like he might snap it right off his elbow, staring at his friend in disbelief.

Maybe Bucky's operation hadn't gone as smoothly as they planned, but it wasn't a failure. Bucky worked his mouth for a second, then spit out a small glob of blood and meat beside him. Steve squinted. A yellow disk was embedded into it, about the size of a dime. He glanced at Tony and panted, "Is that it?"

Stepping over Sam, Tony dropped to his knees and examined the disc with his eyes for a moment, then he plucked the chip-detector out of his back pocket and passed it over the glob. It beeped, rapid and shrill. "That's it," he smirked, tucking the device away. He clapped his hands together and stood over Bucky. "Well done, Sergeant! Two for precision, but I'll give you a ten for determination."

xXxXxXx

Steve was a coward and this was all his fault.

That's what he told himself as he cleaned and dressed Bucky's wound with gauze. He could have spared his friend all this trauma if he just followed through, stabbed in and pried out on three like he was supposed to. If it were anyone else lying there, he wouldn't have thought twice.

But it was _Bucky_. The big jerk, his best friend, his brother from the past. He couldn't just jam a crappy blade in him willy-nilly! Not after all he's been through already. Steve was ashamed of himself. Utterly disgusted with his cowardice. How could he even call himself a hero?

Sam was at the wheel, glancing through the rear-view mirror at Steve's sullen, sulky face as he sat in the back corner of the van with Bucky and the crate of bananas. Bucky lay on his back with earbuds in his ears, the end plugged into Steve's phone. He was listening to ' _The Best of Frank Sinatra_ ', which Tony had downloaded for him while they were stopped at that fast food joint twenty miles back.

It was kind of a sorry-that-sucked present and about as soft-hearted as Tony was willing to be with him. Bucky's arm lay at his side, bandaged up and throbbing like hell. Steve determined it would heal quickly as long as they kept it clean. Leaning his head against the back window, Steve watched a big wooden sign shrink away in the distance. " _Welcome to Colorful Colorado_!" it said.

"More than half-way across the states now," mentioned Sam, if only to get Steve's mind off his guilt. Steve never actually mentioned his feelings, but Sam was a close friend and he knew what a terrible martyr he was. He could tell he felt terrible just by the look on his face.

"Manifest destiny! Woo!" Tony whooped from the passenger seat, raising his phone in the air. His knee was bouncing like a jackhammer and he may or may not have mixed Red Bull and booze earlier. "I'll attach pontoons to this baby and we can just keep going 'til we reach Japan."

Sam cracked a smile. "You speak Japanese, Stark?"

Tony replied, " _Si_ ," and popped open another energy drink. Steve shook his head, lips curling up ever so slightly. His gaze settled on Bucky, who was really enjoying Sinatra, if the serene look on his face was any indication. Now that was real music, Steve thought. Unlike Cannibal's Corpses and Radonna and the other noise they were playing on the radio this century.

Tony suggested they keep driving until they were west of the mountains, just to be on the safe side. Initially they were going to bury the chip until Tony got a mischievous look on his face and said, "Hey, you know how we can _really_ fuck with S.H.I.E.L.D?"

So they ended up stuffing the chip into a piece of bread, tossed it in the road and waited until the crows came. Now it sat in the belly of a bird, flying off to God-only-knows-where and sure to give some agents a headache or two. It wasn't a permanent solution, but it bought them a little more time.

"Now we have to be more careful about covering our tracks and staying out of sight," Tony warned. "S.H.I.E.L.D's gonna go nuts and comb the whole country when they find their chip covered in bird shit. Probably Mexico and Canada too."

Sam suggested, "Maybe we should think about changing our methods then. If agents are gonna be scattered all over, then the more we travel, the more likely we are to bump heads with them. I say we should slow down. Find a secure location and lay low for a while."

"Where?" Steve queried doubtfully. "Are there any places left in this country that don't have cameras watching them?" Tony rolled his eyes and replied,

"Yes, Grandpa, there are. Now I'm not saying we hide out with the Amish or anything, but Wilson's got a point. We should find a location with forests, mountains, places like that to hide. These wide open fly-over states are bad news. I'm so god damn sick of corn…"

xXxXxXx

Western Colorado was a whole different animal from its eastern half. The rolling green hills and stony mountains were a majestic sight to behold, even under cloudy skies. It was late in the afternoon and the whole crew was restless with sore legs and asses. They were far enough from the bloody cornfield now, they decided, and Tony discovered a remote mountain lodge on his phone.

The mountain was stony and forested, not snowy, so the place wasn't bustling with prospective skiers. Less eyes to spy on them. It was meant for hiking enthusiasts, with access to long nature trails snaking around the mountain for miles. Tony forked over $550 in cash for a 2-bedroom luxury suite on the second floor.

The suite was decorated with mountain and nature-themed motifs. A fake but life-size deer head was mounted on the wall above the dining area, the couch patterned with little trees. Steve flicked a switch that he thought was for the lights and made an artificial fire roar in the fireplace.

Sam stepped into the middle of the living area and planted his hands on his hips. "Not too bad!" he grinned. Steve turned to Tony and tipped his head, humbling himself a little when he said,

"Thanks, Tony."

"Yeah, don't think I did it for you guys," Tony's mouth stretched into a half-smirk. "I'm just tired of sleeping on nasty, jizzy, weed-sheets."

Sam snorted with laughter, collapsing on the couch. Bucky sheepishly moved away from the door, each step careful and deliberate as he looked around the room. He didn't belong in here. This place was so clean and nice and he was so filthy and lowly. These quarters were fit for handlers and agents, not weapons. He felt like he was trespassing, but Steve was smiling at him, clamping a hand on his shoulder, leading him further inside.

A bottle of champagne was waiting for them on the dining table, chilling in a bucket of ice. Tony zoned in on it like a missile. Plucking it from the ice, he turned to Sam and said, "Oh look, Honey! For our romantic dinner later!" Sam's eyes rolled back, teeth flashing behind his lips. He replied,

"Great. Maybe you'll finally propose, put a nice rock on my finger."

Tony kissed the air in his direction, then uncorked the bottle and took a swig. Steve sat down next to Sam and stretched his legs out with a satisfied groan. He heard his knees pop and it was so, so good after being stuck in the van for half the day.

He hadn't been able to jog or do his exercise routine since they made criminals of themselves. There just wasn't enough room in the van or any of the crummy places they'd bunked in. Maybe here, he could shake some of the pent-up energy out.

Bucky was still standing awkwardly to the side. Steve patted the seat between himself and Sam. He said, "Sit down and stay a while, Buck. We can relax a little now."

"'Least until S.H.I.E.L.D catches that bird," muttered Tony, corking the bottle. He placed it back on the table and shook his head. "They're gonna be so pissed. Heh. Good idea, Stark." He gave himself a quiet applause, sinking into the padded dining chair.

Bucky shuffled to the couch, arm pulled in close to his belly to avoid bumping it against anything as he squeezed between Sam and Steve. Tony hadn't been wrong—It really did hurt like a bitch. The gauze was stained with blood and Steve would have to help him change it later.

Bucky wondered if he could do it himself using his teeth or his feet. Would Steve be impressed if he did? Would he stop treating Bucky like a helpless imbecile?

A little part of Bucky hoped not. He kind of liked Steve doting on him that way. He was a lowly asset and he wasn't _supposed_ to like wasting his handler's time, he didn't _want_ to like it, but there was no denying that he did.

He ate his banana-protein mixture as the others chowed on delivery from room service, which they claimed wasn't very good but he had a feeling they just said it to make him feel better. Bucky thought he used to eat stuff like that, food that he had to grind with his teeth. It was strange to eat from a bowl with a spoon. He was used to being fueled from a tube like a machine. This was better, he decided, because he could stop when he was full. Was never punished when it came back up.

He didn't feel like Hunger or dying anymore. Steve got his shit together and saved him just in time like some kind of great hero. Maybe he was more competent than Bucky gave him credit for.

xXxXxXx


	11. Compromised

**{ 11. Compromised }**

As cold as it was, it was also a clear and beautiful morning in the mountains. Steve heard at least three types of birdsong and zero sirens, no traffic sounds at all as he jogged down the forested path. It was a whole different experience than jogging around New York City.

As usual, he was up before the sun and everyone else in the lodge. He laced up his running shoes and off he went. H felt like he was going to lose it if he was cooped up for one more day. Aside from one or two hikers, the path was quiet and barren. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to split up, but Steve reasoned that there would be no safer time than now, when S.H.I.E.L.D was busy homing in on that unscrambled chip. What's the worst that could happen in an hour?

Sam didn't wake as his phone vibrated on the side table. Only a message from Steve, telling him where he was and how long he'd be gone. Tony got the same message, but Bucky was left in the dark when he suddenly woke, realizing the weight beside him was gone.

Bucky blinked and looked around the room. Lifeless. He searched the sitting area and peeked into Sam and Tony's room, but Steve was nowhere to be found. Steve, his handler and also his objective. He was _supposed_ to be following Steve, presumably to guard him, and right now his handler was out in the world alone with hostiles about.

As much as he cared for _Bucky's_ well-being, Steve didn't seem to have any sense of self-preservation, Bucky thought. Maybe Sam knew that. Maybe that's why—when they rescued Bucky from that horrid facility—Sam ordered him to "follow Steve" in the first place.

Right now, Bucky was fucking up. But Sam and Tony were still asleep, so maybe he could pull it together before they woke and they wouldn't know that he was a useless failure, wouldn't dismantle him and throw him in a scrap heap. The mission was still salvageable.

So Bucky set off to salvage it. He slipped on some jeans, his high-tops, and the heavy black jacket that Steve got for him, which he called a "Carhartt". Sam cut off the left sleeve so it wouldn't flop around and Bucky thought that was very smart and considerate.

He used his feet to hold the bottom of the jacket as he zipped it up. He put on the red beanie that was a gift from Tony and had a graphic sewn into it that said "IT'S LIT". Bucky didn't know what that meant but Tony thought it was funny when he wore it.

Last time he tried to protect Steve, Bucky was overpowered. It wouldn't have happened if his metal arm had anything to say about it, he thought, and searched their luggage for tactical gear.

The closest thing he could find was that obnoxious shield in Steve's backpack. It would have to do. It stood out against his dark clothes in its red, white, and blue glory, gleaming in the morning sunlight as he stepped out of the lodge.

There was a big gravel lot ahead, forest and mountains all around. If he were Steve, where would he go? There was only one road out of this place, but the van was still parked where they left it. Steve must have gone somewhere by foot and there was no sidewalk on this road.

Bucky combed the perimeter, making his way around the building. It was built from logs and the roof came up to tall, shingled points. There was a covered area in back with tables and chairs, where a couple parties were sitting. A young woman pointed to Bucky, then the man in front of her turned around in his seat to look too and they both smiled, giggled at him.

The group of old people at another table glanced at him, a couple just shaking their heads. The young woman raised her voice over the distance and asked, "Are you a cosplayer?" Bucky looked around and realized he was alone, here outside the eating area. She was addressing him and he didn't understand the question.

They were only civilians, unarmed, not a threat. Bucky ignored her and saw a footpath leading into the forest. If he were Steve, he'd have gone that way because it seemed the most obvious and Steve would take the most obvious, direct route anywhere. Bucky didn't know how he knew that.

Around him was a symphony of birdsong from the towering conifers. He passed a sign with a picture of a bear and text that read "BEWARE OF" above it. Bucky followed the path, keeping a sharp eye and a keen ear out for Steve. He noticed tracks in the path here and there, imprints of feet and paws.

A set of fresh footprints were spaced far apart, smeared a little at the heel which suggested the target was running. They were also a little bigger and deeper than the others, meaning the target was heavier than the average person. Likely not fat judging by the gait, but muscular. Bucky knew someone who was heavy and muscular and liked to run.

He followed the prints down the trail for a mile and a half. There were no other human faces to be seen, but he did see a deer cross the path in front of him. It was a doe, and it stopped in the middle of the trail to stare at him. Bucky stopped too. It stood about twenty feet away and he wondered if he could creep up and touch it. He could certainly shoot it from here if he had a firearm, put one between the eyes with ease—but he didn't need to do that. It was only another unnecessary thought.

"Hey!" a voice called from further down the trail, shrill and feminine. The deer disappeared in an instant, leaping off into the trees. It had been blocking Bucky's view of a person, a young woman, sitting on the trailside. She was small and dirty with long black hair tied back in a messy ponytail, clad in neon jogging clothes.

"Thank God!" She cried to him. "Please help me! I—I think I broke my ankle! It just happened, like, ten minutes ago and I can't get a cell signal!" Bucky regarded her with suspicion. He raised his shield and crept forward, and her expression changed as she did. Her eyes rounded, looking up at him with a flash of fear.

"Uh, is that like, a Captain America thing? Is it real metal?" Her tone was as nervous and submissive as her smile. Bucky lowered the shield. She was not a threat. She was sitting with one leg outstretched, pants rolled up to her knee. Her shoe and sock were sitting to the side.

Bucky watched himself kneel beside her leg and begin examining it, and he wasn't sure _why_ because she was not his objective. She was a useless civilian and he was wasting time on her when he should have been searching for Steve. What he was doing, it felt compulsive.

She needed help and Sergeant Barnes would've helped her—he knew because he watched all 47 episodes of _The Adventures of Captain America_. Steve said those characters were them, but Bucky realized that was impossible because it was filmed a very long time ago and they would both be old and gray by now. He thinks Steve was just teasing him. Teasing was a thing these new handlers did with him sometimes, which his old handlers had not.

The picture quality on the screen had been small and not so good. Still, aspects of that show jumped out of him, hit him with a nostalgic feeling for something that never even existed. Steve wanted him to be like Sergeant Barnes from the show, brave and righteous, always helping those in need.

This woman's ankle was twisted and swollen and there were teartracks on her face. She was definitely in need. Bucky couldn't pick her up with one injured arm and a shield, so he set the shield on the ground and kneeled before her. He turned around, facing away from her, and patted his metal shoulder.

The woman said, "Climb on your back? Are you sure? I don't wanna like, break your spine or anything…" At this, Bucky snorted a chuckle. His spine had suffered worse trauma than supporting a ninety-pound lady, that's for sure. He glanced back at her and nodded. The woman stood up on one foot and laid over top of his back, arms around his neck and legs around his waist.

Bucky stood up and hooked his hand under the back of her right knee to support her the best he could. She weighed less than Sam's duffel bag…But now he couldn't carry the shield. Damn it. What he would give to have his other arm back…

She must have noticed his bewildered pause because she asked, "Want me to carry the shield?" Bucky nodded and kneeled down again, low enough that she could grab the shield and hoist it up. "God, it _is_ real metal. It's heavy!" she grunted and held it with both hands, hugging it against Bucky's chest. Perfect, body armor. Maybe she wasn't so useless after all.

"Thank you, thank you so much," she said. "I'm Kendra, by the way." Bucky made a little noise of acknowledgement and moved forward, carrying her further down the trail. Kendra mentioned, "Oh, uh, the lodge is the other way." Bucky paused for a second, glancing back.

Should he drop her off there and come back? No, he'd walked so far already and Steve could be in danger. There were bears here, he read. Kendra would just have to come along for the mission. He kept walking and she sounded a little more frantic when she pointed and said, "No, no, _that_ way! W-where are we going?"

Bucky swallowed. He took a breath and said, "Gotta find Steve." Forming words still felt alien in his mouth, but he was getting better, he thought. Kendra cocked her head.

"Steve? Is that someone you're hiking with?"

Bucky just nodded. She continued, "Well, when we find Steve, we're going back to the lodge, right? 'Cause I got people waiting for me."

Bucky nodded again. She seemed to relax, just slightly. Thirty silent paces passed between them before she spoke again. She asked, "Sorry, I don't think I got your name earlier. You are…?" Bucky nearly tripped over his own feet. Well…What a hell of a question. He'd been called a lot of names by a lot of people.

James. Sergeant Barnes. Asset. Soldier. Buckaroo. Nathan. One time Tony called him "Fucky". But Steve addressed him as "Bucky" and he liked that the most, so he told her,

"I'm Bucky."

"Bucky?" Kendra paused. Then after a moment, she laughed, "Like Bucky Barnes? Ooooh, Steve, the shield—I get it! There must be a convention in town. I know the hotels around here are always packed during those things. Staying up here at the lodge was smart, I bet no one else thought of that."

Bucky didn't know what the hell she was on about. He just shrugged and shifted her a little on his shoulders. She grinned.

"You costume people aren't allowed to break character, huh?"

He replied with silence. She said, "I guess not."

Not another minute down the trail and she was talking again. "So you must be like, an actual vet. Did you serve in Iraq or Afghanistan?" Bucky furrowed his brow. What? Was there a war going on? He didn't see any tanks or soldiers. Kendra gasped and threw a hand over her mouth. "Oh, Gosh! That was probably like, a super rude question. I'm sorry. I just thought…Uh, because of…"

She gestured vaguely to his amputated shoulder and slapped her palm over her eye. "Yeah, that was rude. Sorry. I guess I'm just a little dazed from the ankle thing. It's pretty bad, I think. I probably won't be able to hike again for months…"

The woman prattled on as Bucky carried her another mile down the trail. It was fine. The more she talked, the more he didn't have to. She had come to the conclusion that he was a war veteran and told him that her brother served in a war as well, and he said some of his fellow soldiers had trouble speaking when they came back from their deployment too.

She could believe whatever she wanted about him. It didn't matter because after he found Steve, he was dumping her off at the lodge so he could fulfill his mission properly. It would be more efficient to just snap her neck and toss her body in the woods, but…Bucky didn't know where that thought came from, because Steve wanted him to be like Sergeant Barnes and Sergeant Barnes would never harm a civilian except in self-defense. He was sure this frail, bubbly woman couldn't hurt him if she tried.

A _pit-pat-pit-pat_ noise was approaching from around the corner. Bucky tensed, then shuffled into the grasses on the roadside. A flash of color jogged around the corner—red track pants, white shoes, and a blue shirt, because Steve had all the subtlety of a freight train.

Either way, Bucky was relieved to see him. Steve slowed to a stop several feet away, panting slightly as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Bucky…?" he queried. Then he mentally kicked himself for not using his code-name when he realized the thing on his back wasn't a backpack. It was a person, a civilian, a _stranger_. Bucky moved forward. He and Steve approached eachother, both looking rather confused for a moment until Kendra gasped,

"Wow! Oh my God, you look _just_ like Captain America! Ha! You guys must be professionals. Do you do parties and stuff? 'Cause I have a nephew who is like, _obsessed_ with the Avengers." Steve quirked an eyebrow, cocking his head slightly as his gaze shifted between her and Bucky. Bucky looked back at him with his mouth twisted as if to say, _I don't know either, Man_.

Steve brought his hands to his hips, probably silent for slightly too long before he noticed the shield and everything pieced together in his brain. His brows shot up and he stammered, "Uh, y-yeah, yeah, we're—I mean, no, we don't do parties or anything, but…" He pretended to scratch his head, if only to obscure his face. "We do the, uh, costume thing, yeah…"

Steve reached out and took the shield from her. She clapped her hands together in delight above Bucky's head and beamed, "I _have_ to get your pictures! This is too cool. Like, I broke my ankle and he literally saved me! You're like, actual super heroes!" Steve wasn't jogging anymore but he felt the sweat flowing harder than ever. This was bad. This was really bad.

She was reaching the phone in her pocket when Steve's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. "H-hold on," he began, "let's wait until we get back. If that ankle's really broken, then you need medical attention as soon as possible." Kendra nodded in agreement.

"I guess you're right," she said.

Steve patted Bucky's shoulder, beckoning him to follow as he led the way. The blond's thoughts were racing, planning a million different ways to slip out of this. A photo was out of the question. Steve knew she'd probably post it on the Face Book and that face-recognition technology would out them.

"So are the muscles natural? 'Cause you're seriously just as jacked as Cap. You might even be _bigger_ than him!" Kendra blurted towards Steve. He floundered for an answer.

"Uh…No, they're not natural." It wasn't exactly a lie. Kendra nodded and said,

"I guess you have to do a lot of crazy stuff to your body when you're an actor. Did you get work done on your face too? You seriously look _so_ much like him."

Steve shrugged. "It's a secret," he decided. Kendra spewed inane questions the entire way back to the lodge and Steve had to belt out terrible, terrible lies. He felt his heart thumping in his chest. Tony and Sam were going to be _pissed_. Steve was only gone for an hour, on an extremely remote trail at the crack of dawn in the off-season, running too fast for anyone to recognize him anyway. He never expected Bucky to show up with a problem on his back.

The lodge was visible in the distance and more guests were out and about now, preparing early for their hiking trips. He and Bucky couldn't stick around while a crowd gathered, but Steve's conscience compelled him to see that this woman got help. Two other women, looking close to Kendra's age, waved at her from beside the building. They came running up to meet her as Bucky carefully set her down. She stood on one leg before she leaned on the red-headed woman's shoulder.

"Oh my god, Kendra! We were about to call the police or something! Where were you?" asked the redhead. Kendra was all smiles as she explained,

"You guys, you are not going to believe this—this is so crazy! I twisted my ankle jogging and these cosplayers," she gestured to Steve and Bucky, "just showed up out of nowhere and carried me back. Look at them! They're Bucky Barnes and Captain America!"

Steve scratched fake itches on his neck and face, all tensed up as the women giddily threatened to expose him to every hunter on his trail. Kendra was so adamant about that damn photo. She raised her camera and Steve pushed it away once more. He suggested, "Please, call an ambulance first. That ankle really doesn't look good."

"Just one picture, real quick!" they pleaded. Steve looked at Bucky, standing behind him with something like anxiety on his face. Steve Rogers hated lying. His lies were transparent as glass, flimsy as wet paper. He turned back to the women, grit his teeth and said something he knew was going to haunt him later. He said, "Don't worry, we're going to be here a while. Uh, tell you what—call an ambulance, get that ankle checked out, and we'll meet you tomorrow with our full costumes on. It'll be a much better photo."

Nailed it. The women agreed, wrote down their phone numbers and room number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Steve. Steve tucked it in his pocket with a plastic smile, shook all their hands, then he and Bucky hurried off back to their suite. As they walked away, they heard one of the women loudly addressing some people by the eating area.

"Hey! Did you guys see Captain America over there?"

Steve cringed.

xXxXxXx


	12. I Used To Be

**{ 12. I Used to Be }**

Sam yawned as he rolled over in the bed, reaching for his phone in the side table. The green light was blinking. He had a text from Steve, dated about an hour ago. The screen burned his eyes in the darkness as he read,

" _went for a jog on south trail, back in 1 hour_."

A jog? Sam questioned if that was necessary. Then he figured if they were at risk of being jumped by agents at any time, they should probably stay in shape through this whole endeavor. He wondered if he should throw on his shorts and head out too. Just as he set the phone down, he heard a door burst open in the other room, slamming against the door stopper.

 _Thump, thump, thump_. Three strides later and Steve was at his doorway, sweaty and harried. "We have to go," he panted. Sam quickly sat up and furrowed his brow.

"What? Why?"

"I blew it."

"What do you mean you 'blew it'?"

 _I mean Bucky blew it_ , Steve considered, but didn't say because that wasn't fair. He realized Bucky was only trying to help and pointing fingers wouldn't solve anything.

Instead, Steve explained, "We got recognized by civilians, kind of. They think we're…Uh, costume people. We've pulled too much attention, we just need to go." His voice woke Tony, who sat up and turned to him with hair sticking every which way and a displeased look on his face.

"Are you fucking serious, Rogers?" he groaned. Steve sighed,

"I'm sorry. It just is what it is at this point. Come on, start packing." With that, he pushed away from the doorframe and moved into the living room. Tony and Sam slid out of bed and followed him.

"It's not like I dropped five hundred bucks on this room or anything, and we don't even get twenty-four hours in it…" muttered Tony. He picked up the champagne bottle and stuffed it in his bag.

Steve began packing his toiletries and called back from the bathroom, "No one forced you to spend that kind of money, Stark!"

"No one forced me to risk my ass for your buddy, either!" Tony called back. Steve felt a rush of heat to his face and he looked out to the sitting room. Tony was looking back at him. Sam observed their silent stare-down and decided he wasn't going to let it escalate.

"This is a real bad time to tear eachother apart," Sam told them cautiously. "Let it go, Guys. Breathe it out, walk it off. We gotta pack." They knew he was right. But that didn't quell Tony's hangover or Steve's anger. A harsh breath gusted through Steve's nostrils. He rolled his shoulders to loosen up as he disappeared back into the bathroom. It was all he could do. If he opened his mouth, he knew only regret would come out.

Tony grumbled some curses under his breath and packed his belongings away with more force than necessary. "I'm exhausted," he said to no one in particular. Being in the same room, Sam and Bucky became his audience. "I'm dehydrated. I'm hungover. I'm homesick…" he continued, shaking his head, "I miss my fucking girlfriend. I miss fucking my girlfriend. And I'm tired of getting fucked by S.H.I.E.L.D! This is bullshit! Should've just stayed home."

"You're doing a noble thing, Tony," Sam calmly assured him. He tipped his head toward the bathroom. "He appreciates it more than he lets on. We'll talk about it when we get some food in us. Get our attitudes straightened out first."

Tony muttered more vitriol under his breath, ranting it out to himself in the meantime.

xXxXxX

The crew was miles down the road by noon. Sam was at the wheel once more, mistrusting the others to hold their tempers and not drive them off the side of the mountain. An oppressive silence loomed over them since they left the lodge, the tension like a guitar string ready to snap. No one was ready to talk, so they stuffed their mouths with more food instead.

Bucky prepared his own nutrient-sludge in the back of the van, smashing up bananas with a plastic spoon in a paper bowl. He uncapped a water bottle with his teeth, spilling a little as the van hit a pot-hole. He splashed some into the bowl, added protein powder, and stirred it all together.

Tony watched him silently, leaning against the opposite wall. Bucky tried not to look back at him. He could _feel_ the scowl on Tony's face, felt his anger and loathing towards him. Bucky wasn't totally sure why Tony was angry with him. He had ideas, but nothing concrete.

Bucky had committed so many infractions since his rescue, his previous handlers would have strung him upside-down and whipped him to ribbons by now. Tony was angry, but he wasn't punishing him. Not yet. Steve was mad at Tony for being mad at Bucky. Bucky hoped Steve would protect him when that punishment came. But if he didn't, he would understand because he'd been a real shit and he deserved it.

Nothing in Bucky's world made sense anymore. Everything used to be so simple, back when the rules were black and white and pain was order and order was pain. Back when he had only one handler at a time. They were cruel to him, but the rules were always clear. Bucky couldn't remember their names. He remembered their faces, he thought, and when they flashed in his mind he felt cold and numb.

Steve was sitting in the passenger seat, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stared out the windshield. Bucky wished he was back here with him instead of Tony. Every time he dared to glance up, he saw Tony glaring back at him and he quickly turned back to his food.

He heard Tony take a deep breath, mouth hanging open as if he were going to speak. Bucky was shocked when he opted not to, closing his mouth for once and shaking his head a little as he turned to frown at the window. Wasn't worth it. A minute passed. Bucky absently fingered the laces on his shoe, eyes fixated on the floor. His voice was small and quiet when he muttered, "Sorry."

Tony nearly gave himself whiplash when he faced the brunet again, eyebrows sitting high on his forehead. Sam adjusted the rear-view mirror and Steve around twisted in his seat. All eyes on Bucky once more. His gaze stayed on his lap, sullen face peeking through a window of dark hair. Tony wasn't saying anything back, so he continued, "Sorry."

Wait. No. He already said that—that wasn't what he meant to say. Bucky felt his throat tighten. There were all these words in his head and that's where they remained. Stuck, because his body and mind were betraying him and he _swore_ he wasn't always like this.

" _I used to be warm like Sam and a wise guy like you_ ," Bucky didn't say.

" _I used to be a good person like Steve. I don't know what's wrong with me and I don't want to be like this_ ," Bucky didn't say.

" _I didn't used to be like this. I don't know why I'm like this. I'm not trying to be like this_ ," Bucky didn't say. Instead, he simply muttered a third choked and tearful, "Sorry!" Because it was all his traitorous tongue would allow.

Some weapon he was. Bucky buried his head between his knees and his body rattled as he fought the tears. This didn't used to be so hard, back when he didn't feel. He didn't used to cry—crying was human. Emotions were bullshit.

Tony watched him weep for a moment, sharing flabbergasted glances with Sam's mirror and Steve. His expression begged for help, some kind of solution, but they had none. With a theatric sigh, Tony turned back to Bucky and mumbled, "Alright. What are you snottin' about now, Barnes?"

Bucky couldn't answer. Tony gave an order, demanded an answer and he needed to follow orders but his brain, his body, his tongue just wouldn't—

" _Fuck_!" Bucky exclaimed through the wetness in his throat. It was a croak, a growl, barely a word. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" The curses were forced through gnashed teeth and he pounded his fist against his skull with each one, until Steve was climbing between the front seats into the back to stop him.

Steve caught his friend's wrist in his iron grip, pulled it down to his side. "Bucky, don't!" He scolded, and Bucky only sobbed in response. Tears dropped onto the rug, mucus oozing from his nostrils. There was so much he wanted to say, so many violent and terrible things inside him that he just couldn't express because—fuck him, that's why.

These things were rotting away, bloating his corpse. Bucky felt like he was going to explode.

And so, he did. A feral screech erupted from his throat as he launched himself backwards, throwing his shoulder into the side window. The glass divided into thousands of tiny facets but did not break, not until he drew his fist back and sent it through in one solid punch. Shards and blood glittered against Bucky's knuckles.

Steve threw himself in front of Tony, shielding him from the stray glass. "Steve, get him—!" Sam barked, but the brunet's screaming and sobbing drowned him out almost completely. The right window was gone and cold Colorado air was blowing in. Bucky grasped the window's edge and pulled himself through, watching the asphalt zip by at 60 miles per hour.

He had an imagination now. He could imagine jumping out, face-planting on the road and it would scrape off his inhuman face, crush his skull and smear his damaged, defective brain down the highway where it couldn't trouble him or anyone else anymore. He didn't get that far though—barely got his hips out the window before Steve grabbed him by his coat and yanked him back in the van.

Bucky fell against Steve and in an instant, found himself trapped between two huge arms. The brunet wailed, wriggled, kicked everything around him with all his might. His foot left a dent in the side of the interior, cracking the plastic. He felt the van swerve and slow to a stop on the shoulder, heard traffic whizzing by on the left.

"Hey, hey! Stop!" Steve's voice boomed over his noise, so loud and commanding that it shook Bucky back to the present. Bucky's sobs quieted to shuddering, ragged breaths and all but his heaving chest stilled. Hair was stuck to his damp face, wide eyes staring through the locks like a caged animal.

He saw a flash of red and looked down, saw the nails on his trembling hand digging deep into Steve's arm. Blood from his knuckles smearing on Steve's skin. The blond man's heart was thundering against his back. "W-what the hell do you think you're doing…?" Steve asked. The question was quiet and breathless.

Bucky didn't have time to even think about answering before the door in front of him slid open and there was Sam, standing there with fear and anger and disbelief all over his face.

Bucky's blood ran cold. His face flushed paper-white. Here it comes—that punishment for all the infractions he'd racked up. The look on Sam's face was a punishment on its own. Hopefully they'd just kill him quickly and end his suffering, not like his last handlers who only threatened to kill him and never followed through.

"What the fuck is his problem?!" Tony growled from outside Bucky's vision. He was still trapped in Steve's arms, his embrace as oppressive as it was oddly comforting. Bucky wasn't struggling anymore. He decided that if they were going to kill him, there was no better place to die.

Tony continued sharply, "If he's going to act like a maniac, then we can't keep going like this! He's going to kill someone!"

"No, he won't. He won't," Steve forced an even tone through grit teeth, stroking Bucky's hair like a house pet. Bucky closed his eyes and waited for the impact of the whip, the club, the taser, whatever their weapon of choice.

"Do we need to put a straight-jacket on him?" Tony pressed, gesturing towards Sam. "Look what he did to my fucking door!"

"Tony!" Steve's volume was getting higher. The tone was a warning. Tony couldn't stop the spewing stream of vitriol regardless.

"What if he does that to one of us? Freaks out and punches our heads off our damn shoulders?"

"Tony, shut up!" Steve shouted back.

Tony shouted louder, "You can't keep ignoring this, Rogers! He's getting worse! If he doesn't get us caught, then he's going to get us killed—and it's the same outcome as far as I'm concerned!" Steve pressed his nose and mouth against the top of Bucky's head, inhaling and exhaling sharply. His arms were trembling with fury, still locked around his friend.

Sam slid into the vehicle and kneeled by Bucky's legs. "Wilson," began Tony. "You're the loony-expert here. What's your threat level on Barnes?"

 _Because I'm starting to think Natasha was right_ , he wanted to say, and miraculously held his tongue because he knew Steve could throw a punch even more devastating than Bucky's.

Drumming his fingertips on his thighs, Sam chewed his lip in thought. After a moment, he reached over and unzipped his duffel bag. The others watched in silent tension as he dug through, pulling out a spiral-bound notebook and a pen. Then he offered them to Bucky and said quietly, "Let him go, Steve."

Steve looked reluctant and he hesitated, but slowly his muscles relaxed and he pulled his arms away. Bucky still didn't move, lying back against his chest and regarding Sam with an exhausted look. He reached out and took the items being offered to him, setting them in his lap.

"Can you show me what's going on with you, Bucky? What's got you so upset right now?" queried Sam. Behind Steve, Tony slumped against the wall and dragged a hand over his face. Bucky took in a deep breath and flipped to a random page in the notebook. He tapped the pen against the paper in thought. Blood smeared on the page.

The thing making him upset wasn't quite tangible. It wasn't operations or electroshocks or anything he could depict in a literal sense. To explain this, Bucky had to use his imagination; that new and terrifying thing that almost killed him just now when he imagined what a relief death would be.

Suicide hadn't been an option in the past—it was _arrogant_ for an asset to think it had any control over its life. Whether it lived or died, that was dictated by its handler.

The pen scratched against the page, making slightly squiggled lines as Bucky's hand quivered. He drew an oval—a face, with two dots for eyes and a triangle-nose. Lines extended down from its scalp, long strands of hair. Rather than a mouth, he made furious scribbles like a vortex, escaping the confines of the oval.

There was still space left on the page, so beside the face Bucky drew a boxy shape with wheels. Inside the box were three smiling figures. Outside the box was another figure, one-armed and lying sideways, but in place of its head were more scribbles, dark and violent, spreading from the figure's shoulders to the box.

In the last third of the page, Bucky drew the one-armed figure again, this time with all of its limbs detached from its torso. The long-haired, decapitated head was smiling.

He placed the pen on top of the notebook and handed it all back to Sam. Sam sat down with his legs crossed, resting his elbow on his knee as he examined the drawings. His face went through a roulette of subtle expressions. Finally, he lowered the notebook and looked at Bucky.

"You're frustrated because you're having trouble communicating?" he asked, though it sounded less like a question and more like a statement. Bucky nodded, rapid and urgent. Sam glanced back down at the page, then continued, "Do you feel like you'd rather be dead than alive?"

Bucky nodded again and hummed. Tapping his finger on the second drawing, Sam's expression was grave as he asked, "Do you really think we'd be smiling like this if you _were_ dead?"

No hesitation from Bucky as he nodded a third time. He suddenly felt Steve swallow hard against his back, chest sinking and rising. A little smile spread across Sam's lips, forced and plastic with sad eyes above. "Well, we wouldn't be. Not at all," he said. "Why do you think we're cramped together in this van, eating bad food, breaking the law, and sleeping in nasty motels? We're doing this for _you_ , Bucky, because we _care_ about you."

Bucky felt his lungs go still. His eyes darted around at the floor, trying to make sense of all this. They were on the run from hostiles. He didn't know exactly why and it wasn't his place as an asset to know things like _why_. But Steve, Sam, and Tony had rescued him—stole him—from his last handlers and perhaps those handlers were trying to steal him back.

That was his why. So all this trouble, all this extra maintenance and relocating—it was on behalf of their asset, to keep him out of the enemy's hands. Bucky felt like the worst piece of shit in the world. He'd been making this so difficult for them. It used to be easy to behave, but now he was crying and laughing and thinking and _feeling_ and all that shit was just getting in the way.

He must be malfunctioning. Bucky wished they'd scrap him already, but if what Sam said was true, then he was still valuable enough to protect. They wanted him to be a person and he must have been doing a good job at that. Maybe that's why they hadn't punished him. Maybe all these outbursts and disgusting feelings made him more of a person.

"I swear to God, Barnes," said Tony, "if you off yourself after we went through all this bullshit trying to keep you alive, I'm going to lose it. You won't be around to see it, but I will lose it."

Steve sighed. That was the most heartfelt statement they were going to get from Mr. Stark.

Steve grabbed Bucky's flesh shoulder and gave it a little shake as he said, "I need you to stay with us. I swear, it won't always be this hard. We're not the only ones on your side. Tony's girlfriend and all her lawyers, his friend Rhodes, our friend Natasha, they have your back too. A lot of people are fighting for your freedom because they believe you're worth it. When the fight is over, you'll never be treated like a prisoner again."

After a pause, he added, "Don't take my best friend from me, Buck."

xXxXxXx

Tony had duct-tape in his luggage, which he claimed could fix anything. It didn't exactly fix the broken window, but it did hold the plastic bag in place tightly enough to keep the rain out. The sky was pouring buckets now as they crossed the border into Utah. "I thought this van couldn't look any sketchier," Sam stated from the passenger seat. "I was so wrong…"

"Couldn't just open the door, huh, Barnes? Had to be all _dramatic_ about it and smash my nice window, didn't ya?" said Tony. He was at the wheel now, glancing at Bucky and Steve through the rear-view mirror. The incident was miles behind them now and the tension eased once they got some food and coffee in them.

Steve still wasn't convinced they were in the clear. Not with Bucky or with anything else. That familiar feeling of dread was back and he felt the hairs on neck stand on end, how his shoulders bunched up and just wouldn't settle. He sat beside Bucky, looming over him as the brunet lay against his bag with the shield inside.

His eyes weren't quite closed, but Bucky didn't look asleep either. His stare was as exhausted and vacuous as the day of his rescue, aimed toward the ceiling of the van. Tony's teasing didn't get a reaction. Steve was pretty sure Bucky hadn't heard him at all.

Sam suggested that driving around at night in a beat-up clunker wasn't the best idea, especially in this small town with nosy old people about. Just before sundown, they found a suitable motel and opted for a single room for security. If Bucky was this unstable, Steve figured it was best to have more eyes on him (and hands, if it came to that).

The room was standard, a clone of all the other cheap places they had stayed. The only difference was two complimentary mints on the pillows of each bed. Tony cried "Saw 'em first!" as he snatched them both. Sam rolled his eyes, dropping the last of their bags on the floor as Steve brought the crate of bananas inside. With the window busted out, they didn't chance anything.

Tony popped the mints into his mouth and dropped the shiny green foils on the bed, sitting on the mattress with his laptop. Sam settled in beside him and picked up the foil wrappers. Bucky had been silent and sullen since he made an attempt on his life, which was to be expected. Now the brunet was standing with his forehead pressed against the wall as if he'd fallen asleep there.

Sam knew he had to keep him engaged. Keep him from regressing into the mindset he used to cope with S.H.I.E.L.D's abuse, keep him from becoming a machine. So he straightened the foil between his fingers and said, "Hey, Bucky. You wanna do some arts and crafts with me?"

Bucky didn't react. Off in his own world, Sam figured, so he let out a sharp whistle and called louder, "Barnes!" The brunet's shoulders jolted and he raised his head, turning to face the other man. He looked confused, slightly panicked. Sam offered a smile and told him, "C'mere for a sec. I'll show you how to make a crane."

Looking a bit disoriented, Bucky obeyed and sat on the bed next to Sam. Steve watched from the other bed, just out of the corner of his eye as he pretended to play with his phone. Folding and twisting the foil, Sam narrated his process as he manipulated it into the shape of a bird. Bucky watched closely. His brow was furrowed in concentration but his eyes seemed lost, blinking a little too frequently. Trying desperately to stay in the present, to push the garbled noise of his troubles away.

Once finished, Sam offered the second foil to Bucky and asked him to repeat what he'd just done. Tony glanced away from his laptop and spoke over the mints, "Gonna be a bitch with one hand. That's not even fair."

"He can do it," Sam assured him. That was the point, to keep him focused and tear his mind away from his pain. "We keep underestimating him and he keeps surprising us, doesn't he?"

"For better or worse," muttered Tony.

Bucky looked down at the foil wrapper—the mission—and carefully began to fold it. His fingers were clumsy in ways he thought they didn't used to be and he eventually slipped off his shoe and sock, using his toes to hold sections of the foil. He remembered the steps, up until the point when the crane wasn't looking right and he realized he'd made a mistake.

Bucky unfolded, refolded. Still wrong. He felt his heart begin to hammer in his chest and dared to glance up at Sam with round, fearful eyes. Sam just smiled as he said, "Almost got it. Just fold this piece here…" and demonstrated the next step. Bucky didn't know what the purpose of this training was.

An elegant ballroom flashed in his mind. Just bits and pieces—the smell of perfume, the red velvet curtains, the ivory piano keys under his gloved fingertips. Bucky recalled another lesson from the past that he didn't see the significance of at the time. Someone taught him to play the piano. They too wanted him to disguise himself as a person, at least until he slipped the poison into the wine.

Or maybe that was just his imagination. It was getting hard to tell. His mind was full of unnecessary garbage-thoughts now that he had things like _desires_. They only caused him conflict, to contradict himself and make a mess of things. Like wanting to protect Steve, yet also wanting to die. What kind of bullshit was that?

Bucky folded each edge of the foil, using the combined efforts of his hand and feet and accepting nothing less than perfection. It was slow, tedious work, but he was good at that kind of thing. He was patient. Unlike Steve, who he knew was watching him even though Steve was pretending not to. That's why he had to be especially precise.

Steve couldn't shake that primal, oppressive feeling of dread that had overcome him hours ago. After a while, he got up and inspected the room for bugs—the electronic kind—under the guise of cleaning so Sam wouldn't bark at him for "tweeking". Tony already scanned the room with his gadget and though it didn't detect anything, Steve just wasn't convinced.

A half-hour passed before Bucky was satisfied with his crane. Sam's looked crooked and sloppy by comparison. "Don't you get a wish or something if you make a thousand of those things?" queried Tony.

Sam chuckled, "At his rate, we'll be wishing for our youth back." Then he turned to Bucky and said, "But you still did it against the odds and that's damn impressive. I think you should get a wish anyway. What do you want, Bucky?"

Tony blurted, "I wish Sam would get me another one of those iced coffees."

"Yeah, too bad it ain't your wish," Sam replied flatly. Wishes, wants, desires—those things only got Bucky in trouble. But he knew exactly what he wanted the moment he was asked. He set the crane aside and pointed to Steve, who was standing by the window and pretending not to peer through the little gap in the blinds.

Steve's eyes flashed towards him and his blond eyebrows shot up. "Me? You want me?" he stammered a little, wearing a smile like a mask.

 _I wish you could understand._

Bucky inhaled, trembling a little when he forced the word out: "S-stay. Stay with me." The frustration was creeping back in. Why was it so fucking _hard_ to express these things? Steve straightened his back a little and his expression straightened too.

He said, "I'm not going anywhere. We're gonna see this whole thing through together." His throat bobbed slightly. Bucky had more to say but the words felt like a mouthful of water sloshing on his tongue.

"I hurt," he managed, gesturing to his chest and then his head.

Steve crossed the room and sandwiched Bucky between Sam and himself. The mattress sunk under his weight and pulled Bucky towards him. The brunet didn't resist, leaning his head against his friend's shoulder. Steve sucked in a deep breath, let it out slow.

"I know you do," he said solemnly. "I'm really sorry." Bucky felt a heavy arm rest on his back. If it weren't for Steve, Tony and Sam wouldn't have put up with his shit for this long. Tony would have left him on the side of the road days ago or surrendered him to the hostiles, he was positive. If Steve left him, he would have no one.

Bucky didn't feel worthy.

xXxXxXx


	13. Seven Black Vans

**{ 13. Seven Black Vans }**

"Someone tampered with the van," Tony said flatly, coming inside from the parking lot. Three sets of wide eyes whipped his way; Sam and Bucky from their beds and Steve peeking out from the bathroom. Shaving cream was smeared around half of his jaw.

Tony crossed the room and started digging through one of his bags. "Ripped the plastic off the window. Not like we had anything to steal," he continued, "but I'm going to do a bomb-sweep just in case."

"Check for trackers too," Steve told him. Tony rolled his eyes and shook a rectangular device in the air.

"Goes without saying, Rogers…"

The door closed behind Tony, disguised in a ballcap and sunglasses. Steve quickly finished shaving and rushed into the main room, peering through the blinds with Sam. They watched Tony round the vehicle with the device, sweeping it around the outside before opening the door and crawling through the interior.

"Probably just tweekers lookin' for loose cash…" muttered Sam. Steve turned to him with a blond eyebrow quirked.

"Okay, seriously, what the hell is a 'tweeker'?"

Sam chuckled. "It's a junkie. Type of person who shoots up in places like this, then tears through every car in the lot for more dope money."

Bucky sat on the bed, pretending to watch TV as he listened to Steve and Sam. He shoveled some assassin-chow into his mouth with a plastic spoon. "Could be hostiles," suggested Steve. Sam shrugged.

"I'll let Tony be the judge of that. Don't psych yourself out just yet."

After a thorough inspection, Tony returned to the room. His lips were pressed into a thin line as he removed his cap and glasses, tossed them on the bed with a sigh. Steve crossed his arms and leaned on the wall. "Well?" he queried. Tony hesitated a little, scrubbing at his hair.

Finally his arm shot out in a shrug and he answered, "I don't know."

Steve furrowed his brow. "What do you mean you 'don't know'? Is it bugged or not?"

"I don't know!" Tony snapped. He half-sat on the edge of the TV stand and sighed. "I mean, my detectors aren't picking up bombs or trackers or anything like that. But I don't think it was a random smash 'n grab either, because the two back tires are slashed and the hood's all fucked up, like someone tried to pry it open or something."

Steve looked at Sam and asked, "A tweeker wouldn't waste their time with all that, would they?"

After a brief pause, Sam admitted, "Probably not. Sounds like someone who had it out for us." He turned back to Tony. "Any other cars get messed with?"

Tony shook his head. "Not that I saw." He paused. "So, Man With a Plan…What now?" A doubtful smirk creeps across his lips. Steve's gaze fell and he scrubbed at his jaw in thought. Finished with his breakfast, Bucky threw the empty bowl on the floor.

Steve focused on the bowl, half-tempted to scold Bucky for littering again. Instead, he turned to Tony and Sam and decides, "Trash it."

"What?" the two questioned together. Steve continued,

"It's not worth the risk. Someone knows we're here, they know our vehicle, and they made a hostile move. We need to lose the van and lay lower. Tony, is there any way Pepper could get us some transport?"

"I cut contact with her days ago," Tony replied, his voice quiet and solemn. "Romanoff thought our comm lines might be bugged. Better safe than sorry—Pepper's got enough shit to deal with. The court case is apparently stagnating as long as Barnes is MIA."

Steve looked down at the floor, exhaling deeply. He sat beside Bucky on the bed and braced his hands on his knees.

"So we've got no one left on the outside," he said grimly. His eyes flashed up at Bucky. "And they expect me to just hand Bucky over, as if they'll suddenly play by the rules after everything they've done? Not happening. I'm sorry, Tony. T-there's no way—I can't—"

Tony raised his palms and told him, "I don't expect you to. We both know they'd bring the axe down the second we stuck our necks out. The four of us are locked in this shit storm together, whether I like it or not. Now we just have to figure out our next move."

"Right…" Steve rubbed at his eyes with his fingertips, a million plans of action racing through his troubled mind. All of them flawed and fatally so.

"I just…I need time to think," he said. Tony and Sam silently began to pack their bags as Bucky sat cross-legged next to Steve. The mission was compromised yet again. Whoever tampered with their transport was likely still in the vicinity, he reasoned. That meant as long as they stayed here, Steve was in danger.

Bucky slid off the bed and no one paid him any mind as he made his way into the bathroom. An hour passed, silent and tense as Steve tried to conjure a sound plan. Tony and Sam offered their input once in a while, but no option seemed secure enough.

Tony mentioned the spare tire on the back of the van. "I can slap it on there and hobble us to the nearest Firestone," he suggested. Steve shook his head.

"The whole van just needs to go."

"We can paint it."

"No, Tony…"

Tony let out a huff, thumping his head against the wall. "My poor, rusty Frankenstein-van…I really grew to like that piece of crap."

"Maybe we can get our hands on one that _doesn't_ turn an officer's head," said Sam. "A nice little soccer-mom mobile or somethin'. What do you wanna do with the van, Steve?"

Steve shrugged. "Leave it. I'm thinking we should buy a week at this motel."

"I'm not staying a _week_ in this armpit of a—" Tony began, but Steve quickly assured him,

"We don't have to stay that whole time. It'll just give the van an excuse to sit for a while without drawing attention." He reached for the wallet in his back pocket and counted out some large bills, handed them to Sam.

"Sam?" Steve queried, and he didn't have to say more. Sam took the money and pulled a beanie over his head before going outside. The door clicked shut and Steve said to Tony, "If we can't get a car, we can bus it to Washington."

"Washington?" Tony raised an eyebrow.

"It's close to Canada, in case we have to leave the country," explained Steve. "Close to the water too. Like you said, if he have to float to Japan, so be it." He offered a weak, weary smile.

"Isn't it cold up there? And full of hippies and sasquatches? Why not Texas? We could get to Mexico from there."

Steve shook his head. "Sam made a good point back there. We want a remote place with good tree-cover, somewhere that's hard to scan from the sky. S.H.I.E.L.D will have drones looking for us soon enough, assuming they don't already."

The two jumped as the door swung open, knob cutting a dent in the plaster. Sam scrambled in and quickly shut it behind him, twisting the lock. "Guys," he gasped, eyes round and anxious, "we got guests. Building's surrounded and more are comin' in, we gotta—" He paused, realizing their only exit was covered. Then he gestured to the window. "Just look!"

Steve and Tony rushed to the window and peeked through the blinds. "Oh. Shit…" The curse slipped under Steve's breath as he saw the fleet of black SUVs pulling into the lot. He counted seven in total.

"FBI?" guessed Tony. The vehicles were consistent in type and color with no markings. Steve shook his head.

"I don't think so." The windows were tinted black and no one was exiting just yet. Most of the vans were idling in different parking spaces across the lot, some slowly patrolling around.

A middle-aged woman came out of the motel—the manager, Sam recognized. A person in full tactical armor rushed out of the van to meet her, briskly guiding her back inside.

"Looks like mercenaries," Steve observed. He stepped away from the window and raked a hand over his head. "Anyone could have sent them."

He took a deep breath and let it out slow, gathering his thoughts. Sam and Tony froze near the window, waiting for orders. Steve strode over to his backpack with his shield inside and slung it over his shoulder. "Arm yourselves," he commanded, and the two scrambled towards their luggage.

Sam loaded ammo into his pistol while Tony assembled some kind of sleek rifle on the table. Its parts were scattered across three different bags and once it was pieced together, a red neon stripe lit up along its barrel. "The hell is that thing?" queried Sam. Tony smirked and replied,

"I don't know. I bought it off Tor, totally unregistered."

"Did you say _Tor_ or _Thor_?"

" _Tor_. Underground internet. Dark net. Whatever."

Sam's brow was heavy with concern. "So what's it do?"

"Hopefully we won't have to find out." Tony shrugs and slings the weapon's strap around his shoulder. "What's the plan, Cap?"

Backing towards the bathroom, Steve replied, "Don't let them corner us in here. We go out there to meet them, then we fight our way into their closest van. We'll drive it as far as we can, and uh…We'll figure it out from there."

Tony rolled his eyes.

"So kill, hijack, then…Question mark. Sounds great."

"Bucky, come on! We're gonna—" Steve opened the bathroom door and froze. No one inside. He peeked behind the door, just white space and a plunger. "Bucky?" Turning all around, he then noticed the dirty shoe-treads on the sink. Above, one of the ceiling panels had been lifted up and pushed aside, exposing the dark crawlspace behind.

A loud knock made him jump, coming from the front door. A muffled voice called, "Everyone come out, unarmed with your hands up!" Shit. Steve rushed back into the living room, tightly clutching the backpack on his shoulder. Tony and Sam looked back at him expectantly.

"Who are you?" Steve called back. The voice on the other side of the door replied,

"We are here for your arrest! Come peacefully or you will be subdued using any means necessary!"

"He didn't answer the question…" muttered Tony. Steve looked at the two and made a 'come here' gesture, then pointed to the bathroom. They nodded and silently made their way inside, Tony slinging one of his flatter bags over his shoulder on the way.

"This doesn't have to get violent," Steve told the voice. "We'll come peacefully. Just…Give us a minute. We, uh, got a guy in the bathroom."

"You have thirty seconds before we break this door down!" barks the voice.

"Yeah, yeah…" Steve replied flippantly and hurried back into the bathroom, where Sam and Tony had already gotten the idea.

Tony stood on the sink, lifting himself into the crawlspace. Sam helped push him up, then hauled himself through. Steve was right behind him, cringing as the ceiling creaked under their combined weight. He replaced the panel and they were left in the red glow of Tony's neon alien rifle.

It was a narrow space, no room to do anything but shimmy forward on their bellies. They faintly heard the voice holler, "Fifteen seconds!" as they passed over a vent. They could look through it into the neighboring unit's bathroom, but no one was inside.

"Ten seconds!"

"Where the hell did Barnes go?" whispered Tony. Steve replied flatly,

"Just keep going. There's gotta be a maintenance door to the roof or something."

"Five seconds!"

Tony suddenly stopped. With Sam's ass blocking his view, Steve couldn't see why. He grunted,

"What is it, Tony?"

"Alright, break it down!" the voice shouted, then a tremendously loud ' _bang_!' followed. Steve, Sam, and Tony jumped as the building shook.

"Someone pushed this vent out," said Tony. Then he shimmied forward and stuck his head through the gap, calling softly, "Barnes…?"

The bathroom was silent and empty, door slightly ajar. The vent cover sat in the bathtub with some dust and plaster particles. Dusty sneaker-prints led out the doorway. "I think he's in here," deduced Tony, and he carefully lowered his rifle and his bag into the tub before maneuvering through the gap himself.

It was a tight fit. After sucking in his gut just right and a good push from Sam, Tony fell into the bathtub more noisily than Steve would have liked. Sam twisted out more gracefully. Steve realized he was going to have problems once his hips were through and the borders of the vent space squeezed his chest.

He kicked his feet, grunted as he tried to force himself through. Sam pulled at his legs while Tony snickered, "What's the problem, Rogers? Maybe we _should_ go to Mexico, get you a cheap boob-job."

"It's not that," Steve huffed. "It's my shoulders. Ugh…I'll get myself out, just go find Bucky."

They could hear the mercenaries two rooms away, chattering as they flipped furniture and tore the room apart looking for them. It wouldn't be long before they noticed the footprints on the sink and figured it out. Weapons in hand, Tony and Sam crept into the main room, doing a visual sweep.

The first thing they saw was a thin, balding man lying facedown on the floor. He wore nothing but dirty jeans and one sock, his arms littered with dozens of bruised pinpricks. There were orange-capped syringes sitting on the side table, bloodspray on the wall, and what they could only assume was vomit staining the edge of the bed. The room reeked of urine and sweat, among other things.

"Jesus _Christ_!"

"Ugh, Man…" Tony and Sam remarked in unison, wrinkling their noses as they cautiously approached the man. As Sam checked for a pulse, Tony noticed a pale face peek out from the closet, all framed in long, dark hair.

"Barnes," he whispered, "what did you do to this guy?"

"Pretty sure Guy did this to himself," Sam mentioned solemnly. He stood up and sighed. "He's done. Probably just passed last night." He turned to Bucky, still hiding in the closet. "Bucky, it's okay. Come outta there. No more runnin' off—We're getting out of this place together."

There was some rustling behind the door, a pause, then finally Bucky came through the closet with a shotgun in his hand. He was holding it upright by the barrel, but Tony's eyes bugged and he took a step back regardless.

"Woah, woah," he swallowed, raising a palm. "Okay, neat find. Just—put it down. Carefully. On the bed there." He gestured vaguely towards the bed with the tip of his neon rifle and Bucky obeyed, laying it down softly.

Not a second later, they heard a loud crashing sound from the bathroom. They whirled around and Tony shoved Sam towards the bathroom door. Sam proceeded, cautiously looked inside only to see Steve lying in the bathtub with a chunk of the ceiling stuck around his waist. White plaster dust coated everything.

"Nice," Sam sighed. The noise surely blew their cover, so Steve carelessly ripped the plaster off his body, brushing the dust away the best he could as he hurried into the main room. His shoulders sank with relief when he saw Bucky standing there, then he tensed up again when he noticed the man on the floor.

"Is that…" he began, and Sam finished for him,

"A tweeker? Yeah."

"Well, that tweeker left us an inheritance," mentioned Tony, and he handed the shotgun over to Steve. After a brief check, Steve found two shells loaded inside.

The ceiling creaked and popped above. Mercenaries discovered their escape route and they were running out of time. Steve quickly shrugged the backpack off his shoulder and slung it around Bucky's. "This is bulletproof," he told him. "When we go outside, we'll probably be under lots of fire. Protect yourself, okay? I got your six. Just charge towards the nearest black van and we'll take it from there."

Bucky nodded and pulled the backpack strap tight, clutched it by the top handle. The four of them lined up behind the door; Bucky at the helm, followed by Sam, Tony, and Steve at the rear. Steve whispered a countdown, ended prematurely when they heard mercenaries topple from the ceiling in the bathroom.

"Just go!" barked Steve, and Bucky rammed the flimsy door open. Dozens of masked faces turned their way, men and women in green body armor with goggled helmets, white bandanas obscuring their noses and mouths. Each of them was armed with electric stun-rifles. It eased Steve's mind, knowing they weren't shooting to kill. Not like capture would be any better, he thought bitterly.

The nearest vehicle was swarmed with hostiles; two inside, one standing on the hood, and another standing to the side. Bucky hesitated for just a moment as he scanned the perimeter, then charged the opposite direction. This vehicle was further away, but the path to it was clearer with only two hostiles to deal with.

Shouts rang out as Bucky bolted across the lot, shielding his head and torso with the backpack. His train of handlers was slowing him down, Sam clutching his strap with Tony just behind, and Steve protectively trying to sandwich the two between himself and Bucky. The air exploded with electric pops, bursts of blue light like fireworks all around.

Bucky peeked over the backpack and kept running, teeth gnashed, pulling forward as his crew lagged behind. The hostiles guarding his targeted vehicle fired their weapons and he ducked low as he kept advancing. The shield vibrated as electric charges clashed against the bag, bouncing harmlessly away.

Bucky grunted as he felt a few strike his legs. It made him tremble and falter a little, like the sharp sting of a papercut, but it hardly stopped him. One of the charges arced over his head and he heard Sam cry out as it exploded against him, felt the pull against his back as someone on his tail went down.

"Oh, eat shit!" Tony cried out and stood tall as he aimed his rifle. When he squeezed the trigger, the recoil threw him on his back and a red laser blasted forth, missing the mercenary and instead striking the black van. The blast punctured straight through the front windshield and out the back, and everything around the hole began to disintegrate into black gunk.

"Whoops," Tony murmured as he scrambled behind Bucky, stuck in place as he waited for his handlers to regroup. Sam convulsed on the ground, Steve shielding him with his body, enduring shot after shot with his super-soldier frame. Sweat beaded the blond man's brow, resisting the jerks and twitches in his muscles while he heaved Sam over his shoulder.

"Buck, I got him! Go!" he called, and Bucky charged towards a new target. Tony aimed his rifle over Bucky's shoulder to fire again and Steve tore it out of his grip. Tony turned back to him in shock and Steve growled, "Stop melting our getaway cars! Here, since you can't aim anyway…" he passed the shotgun forward and Tony greedily snatched it, wasted no time pumping two shells through the front windshield.

The guard outside scrambled away as they were grazed by buckshot. The second exploded into gore in the driver's seat. Bucky leaped onto the hood and rolled through the shattered windshield. By the time Tony and Steve jumped through, he'd already chucked the body outside. Tony tossed the empty shotgun out with it and twisted the key left in the ignition.

Sam wasn't quite unconscious, but too dazed to move. Steve lay him down in the back seat and held him steady as Tony threw the van into reverse, stomping the gas and backing over three mercenaries before speeding out of the lot.

xXxXxXx


	14. Brace for Impact

**{ 14. Brace for Impact }**

The floor shifted and trembled beneath Sam's back. A pink face came into focus, smudged with dirt and framed by a metal ceiling. Bucky stared down at him, gently nudging his shoulder and patting his face. Sam winced, trying to brace himself with wobbly muscles as he propped himself up on his elbows. Three plastic seats were lined up along each side in the back, leaving an open space in the middle.

Just as Sam began to speak, Tony cranked the wheel and sent him and Bucky toppling to the left side. Sam smacked into the interior, and from this angle he could see Steve in the passenger seat with his torso hanging out of the broken window frame.

"This thing's slow between shots," Steve grunted, sinking back in his seat and waiting for the neon rifle to cool down. Tony said,

"I don't have any backup cells either, so make 'em count."

The van suddenly quaked as something heavy struck it from behind. The back windows were protected by metal grids, tinted as dark as legally possible. Sam held the back of the plastic seat and steadied himself, peering back at the van just behind them. It started to hang back, then sped forward and rammed again, slightly crumpling the rear panel.

"You wanna kiss my ass that bad?" Tony muttered. He glanced back to his crew, said, "Brace for impact," and before Steve could protest, he slammed on the breaks. Steve lurched forward, clinging to the window frame while Sam gripped his seat and Bucky flew forward, smacking into the back of the driver's seat.

A screech pierced the air, then a loud crash as the other van smashed in from behind. The rear panel crunched and warped violently, showering the floor in glittering glass. Without hesitation, Tony accelerated again and the vehicle launched forward, sending Bucky toppling across the floor until he hit the back panel.

"Shit," Tony cursed, glancing through the rear-view mirror. Bucky crawled up next to Sam and glared back at him. "Sorry, Guys! I mean, to be fair, I told you to brace—"

"Tony, you're gonna get us killed! Just let me drive!" exclaimed Steve. He reached for the wheel but Tony shoved his hand away and grunted,

" _Not_ a good time to play switcheroo, Rogers!"

Gunfire blasted through the air behind them—actual bullets, not the stun-charges from before. They ricocheted off the van's armored exterior until one managed to pierce the back wheel. They were speeding down a rural road, weaving between sparse 10AM traffic with four mercenary vans and two cop cars on their tail.

The tire blew out, Tony struggling to hold the wheel straight as the rear began to fishtail. Steve aimed the neon rifle out the passenger window once more, steadied his aim and fired through the hood of the closest hostile vehicle. Like before, the laser blasted straight through and didn't lose heat until it struck the vehicle behind it too.

A victorious grin crossed Steve's face as both vehicles slowed to a stop, leaving a trail of goo as they hissed and disintegrated. "Two for one!" he declared. Tony muttered,

"I thought guns weren't your 'thing'…"

"'Gun' is an understatement. This thing's a _canon_ , Tony! People can really just buy this stuff off the internet?"

"We're being chased by a fleet of lawless assholes and _that's_ what you're outraged about?"

The van was losing speed, two hostiles catching up to surround it. Sam saw a window crank down to the right, a flash of orange as a mercenary lit a Molotov. "Explosives comin' on the right!" he cried. Tony's gaze flashed over, saw the fire and he jerked the wheel.

The vans crunched with a screech of tires as they bumped together. The mercenary lost his grip on the Molotov, dropping it into his own vehicle. The interior lit up in a flash and Tony swerved to the left, cursing as the bad tire's rubber came loose and sparks began to fly.

"This thing's getting reeeeaally hard to steer, guys!" he hollered over gunfire and squealing metal. "Abandon ship?" Steve turned around in his seat, examining all the facets of their scenario. Four vehicles left in pursuit. Backup likely on the way. Police roadblock certainly ahead. A forest of towering conifers on one side and a rocky mountain face on the other.

Another van rolled up on the left. Tony turned just second too late as the stun-rifle fired and struck him in the neck. His eyes rounded and his body seized, hands dropping off the wheel as he convulsed. Steve gripped the wheel and kept the van steady, feeling the tingling in his hand as the electricity transferred.

Another charge blasted through and struck Steve in the face. "Augh!" He gnashed his teeth, feeling voltage burn behind his eyes. He fought to keep them open but tears blurred his vision. A dark shape rushed in to his right, blocking all light from the window. Steve blinked the tears away just enough to see Bucky in Tony's lap, blocking the window frame with his bulletproof backpack.

The fabric was charred and frayed from charge hits, but the shield inside was unscathed, repelling every shot. Flashes of red, silver, and blue peeked through the holes. Steve's head was still buzzing, jaw twitching from the charge. Bucky couldn't take the wheel and hold the shield with one arm. Another van was trying to creep in on the right and Steve was losing control of the vehicle.

It wasn't the greatest plan, but it was all he had as he steadied the neon rifle on the dashboard and aimed ahead at the rock face. The recoil bumped him back against his seat and the laser struck the stone. A blackened hole opened, tendrils of decay spreading and cracking its surface into fragments.

"Bucky, hit the gas!" cried Steve, and Bucky didn't hesitate to stomp Tony's foot and push the pedal to the metal. The van lurched and swerved on its bad wheel, gaining a few feet on the hostiles as the rock face began to collapse. Gravel rained down in a cacophony of noise against the roof, spilling in through the broken windshield.

A crack pierced the air as a colossal boulder came loose just above. It toppled and fell with a thundering boom, just grazing the rear of the vehicle. The back panel was torn away completely, hanging on by a thread and scraping along the ground. Sam was violently jostled on impact, clutching the plastic seat for dear life as he avoided death by a half-second and 11 inches.

The van didn't get very far after that. It swerved and slowed and sputtered to a stop. Bucky repeatedly stomped his foot on the accelerator and only sickly, mechanical noises cried out. Steve's heart pounded in his chest, panting as he cautiously peeked out the side window.

The landslide buried the road well across with boulders, gravel, soil, and entire trees from root to top. Whoever had been chasing them—they were either stuck under the mess or behind it with no easy way around. He looked at Sam, whose eyes were round as saucers, teeth clenched as he clutched the sides of his head. His arms were trembling.

Then he looked at Tony, dazed and staring blearily at the ceiling with Bucky in his lap. He probably missed the whole thing. "Sam," Steve panted, tried to swallow but his throat was bone-dry. "Y-you okay?" Sam's eyes flicked back at him, silent for a moment before he nodded and replied,

"Yeah. Y-yeah, I-I think so…" He paused. Then he added breathlessly, "Would you judge a 39-year-old man for pissing himself?"

Steve's mouth curved into a tiny smile. "After _that_? Not one bit." Neon rifle in hand, Steve opened the door and gravel poured onto the road. He rounded the front of the vehicle to open the driver's side. Bucky slid out and Sam stumbled out of the gaping hole where the back panel used to be.

Passing the rifle to Sam, Steve threw Tony over his shoulder and said, "We either climb the mountain or cross the woods. Personally? I'm done with mountains today."

"No shit! I hear that!" Sam rested the rifle over one shoulder and slung Tony's bag over the other.

Together, they made their way down the embankment and into the shadowy cover of the trees.

xXxXxXx

Seven days and three stolen vehicles passed.

As it turned out, _any_ vehicle drew unwanted attention. It was nothing but a cumbersome ball and chain at this point, so the idea was abandoned. Steve and his crew would travel by foot until they couldn't.

For now, they weren't going anywhere any time soon. Even in small towns, people were talking. They couldn't shut up about the zillion-dollar reward being offered for the rogue heroes' capture. Their photos were all over TV, candid snapshots from the gas station, from hotels, from the middle of the street, from the campground, of those wacky "cosplayers" that turned out to be the real deal—real superheroes gone rogue.

Everyone had a camera in their pockets these days, Steve realized, and nobody cared to mind their own business. They had left a trail of blood and chaos everywhere they went—it was no wonder they'd been tracked down. Still no contact with Pepper or Natasha or anyone outside. The group was truly on their own, stranded on a tiny island in a hostile sea.

In this case, their island was a patch of forest on the northern Washington coast. There was a tiny patch of civilization with a handful of houses and a grocer a couple miles east. The Canadian border sat ten miles north. Steve was exactly where he planned to be, yet nothing was going according to plan.

Tony and Sam had the know-how, and Steve and Bucky had raw strength. Together they managed to patch up an abandoned trailer without killing eachother, though nothing about the scenario was ideal. Half of it had been burned and skeletonized (likely by a meth lab explosion, if all the empty bleach containers were considered). That half was patched up with layers of salvaged lumber, sticks, and tarps.

The place sat completely off the grid: no plumbing, no electricity. They washed in a creek, ate from tins, shivered in the cold all night long. Most of their supplies had been left at the motel in Utah.

It was their fifth day in the woods. Five out of… _Question mark_ , they figured, and tried not to think about it.

"I regret everything," Tony said frequently, usually as he was gathering firewood or washing his clothes in the creek. "Should've stayed home. Shouldn't have got involved. Shouldn't have opened my mouth. You try to do the right thing, and then you're a fuckin' bum shitting in the woods like an animal. Karma, my ass!"

"Instead of complaining, why don't you just leave?" Steve would tell him, even though they both knew that wasn't a real option. Tony was right—they were locked in this mess together until S.H.I.E.L.D surrendered or Steve surrendered. Either one had a snowflake's chance in Hell of happening, so here they were, surviving in a run-down meth trailer in the US-Canadian forest.

xXxXxXx

Eight days off the grid.

Tony's briefcase of cash was carelessly left behind in their escape from Utah. Thankfully, he had some fat stacks stashed away in his electronics bag too. They could burn through $5,000 if they were out here long enough, he supposed, and feared the day when they would have to spear fish and skin deer to survive. For now, Sam returned from the grocer with a hundred pounds of supplies on his back.

Soap, canned food, assassin-chow ingredients, bottled water and purification tablets, socks, candles, matches, and booze were on the shopping list today. Sam dumped it all out beside the fire pit and began to sort the items. Tony was quick to snatch up the alcohol as always, while Bucky coveted his bananas. Raccoons were always breaking in and stealing them in the night.

A fire blazed in a ring of stones set up near the trailer. Sunlight was disappearing, the air growing cold. Steve, Sam, Tony, and Bucky surrounded the fire, sitting upon logs and rocks. There was one chair in the trailer when they arrived and it broke into firewood after Steve tried to sit on it. Aside from that, there was no other furniture to be found.

Steve ate a spoonful of beans from a can before passing it to Sam. Sam took a bite, then passed it to Tony. Tony skipped over Bucky—who was sentenced to his assassin-chow—and the can went right back to Steve. After two revolutions, it was emptied, rinsed, and set aside.

For several minutes, they silently stared into the flames. Tension hovered ominously in the background, a sense of fear and uncertainty they all tried to ignore. Addressing it always led to a fight. When the fire offered more light than the sun, Tony got up and swiped his solar charger off the ground. It looked like a 10"x10" mirror sitting horizontally on a tripod stand.

The mirror was divided into segments and folded up into a small cube, the tripod collapsing inside. Tony plugged his phone into a port on the cube and after a moment, the smooth crooning of Frank Sinatra filled the silence. Steve's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

"Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away…" Tony murmured along with the music as he slowly meandered around the site, sipping from the flask in his pocket. "If you can use some exotic booze, there's a bar in far Bombay…"

A little smile crossed Sam's lips. "Come fly with me, let's float down to Peru…" he joined Tony, the two of them singing softly over the crackling fire. Steve scratched at his prickly beard and hid his own growing smile behind his hand, though his eyes still looked doleful.

"We'll just glide, starry-eyed, once I get you up there…"

"I'll be holding you so near, you may hear angels cheer just because we're together…"

Tony threw an arm around Sam's shoulder and playfully, drunkenly, jostled him. Sam snatched his flask and took a sip, Tony snatching it back as he wiped his mouth on his dirty flannel sleeve and continued singing. Steve silently shook his head, gazing absently into the fire until a third voice joined in.

"Come fly with me, let's fly, let's fly away…Pack up, let's fly away…"

Bucky sang the stanza alone as the others were struck silent. His voice faded with the track and then he licked his paper bowl clean, threw it in the fire. Steve, Sam, and Tony wore their eyebrows high as they exchanged looks. Finally, Tony turned to Bucky and exclaimed,

"You can't just go mute for a week straight and then bust out with Sinatra! What the hell, Barnes?"

Bucky looked back at him, then at Steve and wondered if he was in trouble. But Steve was smiling all the way up to his crinkled eyes.

xXxXxXx


	15. Big Freeze

**{ 15. Big Freeze }**

Clouds rolled over the forest. The fire was drowned by rain, forcing the group inside the trailer. Maneuvering by candlelight, they changed out of their dirty day clothes and into slightly less dirty night clothes before settling into their sleeping bags. They slept two to a bag for warmth; Sam and Tony to one, Steve and Bucky to the other. The bags sat side-by-side on a tarp, spread out on the rotting plywood floor of the main room. This room was probably a combination kitchen/living area before it was gutted and turned into a lab.

Rain beat down on the metal roof, leaked inside here and there. Tony was snoring minutes after he finished off his flask, Sam racing against the shrinking candle to finish his book.

Steve stared up into the darkness. His mind was burdened with the future, the well-being of his friends, curiosity about the world outside and how it faired in their absence. Bucky lie on top of the sleeping bag without a blanket, still wouldn't accept one for anything. The rain turned to hail as the air froze and the sound was cataclysmic against the roof.

Turning to Bucky's ear, Steve whispered above the noise, "It's _freezing_ , Buck. You really wanna suffer like that?" Bucky lie on his back, stiff as a board. He was quiet for a long moment. Steve figured he'd gone mute again until he replied,

"Sleep is cold."

Steve furrowed his brows, propped himself up on his elbow. "What?"

"Sleep is cold," Bucky repeated flatly. As if he wasn't heard, as if that should make perfect sense.

"It…It doesn't have to be," Steve told him, still uncertain and confused. The brunet looked at him like he'd spoken another language.

Of course sleep was cold. That's how it had always been as far as Bucky was concerned. He woke up when his old handlers needed him, then after his service they put him in the cold and he went to sleep. Sleeping any other way was forbidden, impossible.

Steve added, "You don't have to do this to yourself just because you can survive it. You…" He paused, tried to choose his words carefully. "You deserve a little comfort. You've suffered enough."

The dying candle illuminated Bucky's face as he turned to Steve, staring back through the bold shadows. They shared a silent moment, then the room went black as the flame was drowned in wax. Sam muttered a curse under his breath and Steve heard him toss his book on the floor.

"Guess that's it," said Sam. "'Night, Guys."

Steve sighed a little and settled back down into his bag. "Good night."

The hail slowed to a quiet pitter-patter above. It still sounded like chaos to Steve. A growing anxiety was consuming him and the whole notion of sleep seemed like a joke. How much longer would they live like this? How much longer _could_ they live like this? Holed up in the wilderness, never to be seen again?

The worst part? Steve knew he'd go on like this for as long as it took. He could do this all day, every day, for the rest of his life if it meant standing up for what he believed in.

He believed in _Bucky_. It was a damn shame, he thought, that so many didn't.

xXxXxXx

Sunlight beamed through the grimy windows. Steve was the first to wake, wincing at the blinding white void outside. The space beside him was empty and Bucky was nowhere to be seen. Scrambling to his feet, Steve slipped his shoes on and flew out the door. He left a short trail of footprints about 2 inches deep before stopping beside the firepit.

There was Bucky, casually stoking the flames to life. He was dressed appropriately for the snow—unlike Steve, who had run out here in sweatpants and a t-shirt. The blond man let out a sigh of relief, wandering towards the fire. He picked up a loose stick on the way and tossed it in, said, "I guess it's officially winter, huh?"

Bucky barely glanced at him, simply grunting in response. He was dressed in layers of flannel and a red wind-resistant coat with the left sleeve cut off. A black ushanka covered his head. Steve went back inside and it was no warmer in the trailer than it was outdoors.

The bathroom was hardly bigger than a closet, even with the toilet and sink ripped out. Steve's clothes were hanging over the shower curtain to dry overnight, now stiff with frost. He shook them out and shivered as he put them on: long johns, jeans, and a heavy hooded sweatshirt over a long-sleeved shirt.

His body heat would warm the fabric eventually. Steve wasn't too concerned about freezing to death out here, not after surviving 70 years as a human Popsicle, though what didn't kill him was still uncomfortable. There was no shortage of scrap metal scattered around the trailer when they arrived and Tony fashioned some of it into a makeshift grill. When Steve left the trailer again, Bucky was placing it over the firepit. It was simply a metal grate standing on four rickety legs.

Among the scrap were some metal pails. Bucky took one, Steve took two, and they headed down to the creek to fill them. It was only a 5-minute walk down a trail littered with garbage. When they first arrived, one of the first things Steve did was fish the syringes and beer cans out of the creek so Sam and Tony wouldn't step on them.

They filled the buckets and boiled them over the fire. Steve cracked open the trailer door and called, "We got water! Get it while it's hot!" Sam and Tony groaned as they forced themselves out of their sleeping bags. They took the steaming buckets into the bathroom, stripped naked and stepped into the rusty tub together.

"If we ever return to civilization," Tony began, "let's agree to never speak of this again…"

"Deal," replied Sam, then they dipped cloths in the soapy water and scrubbed away 3 days' worth of sweat and grime. They were all letting beards consume their faces for now, both for warmth and disguise.

Tony picked up the second bucket, free of soap, and poured half of it over Sam to rinse. Sam did the same for him until the bucket was empty, then it was a race to dry and dress before their body temperatures dropped too low. Super-soldiers could survive these conditions, but Sam and Tony wouldn't if they weren't careful.

Steve boiled rice, throwing in canned carrots to add what little nutrition he could. Bucky took a bunch of bananas and protein powder from the metal footlocker and set about making his own breakfast.

Since last week, hunger pain became background noise in Steve's life. It put all of them at risk every time Sam left for supplies and Steve was well aware that he and Bucky chewed through rations the fastest, so he tried to conserve. Steve was surviving off calorie-dense nutrition bars and Bucky's protein powder. He never thought the day would come when he craved an MRE.

He drank water straight from the creek, saving the purified stuff for the others. No parasite was burly enough to survive Steve's immune system—at least none that he'd swallowed yet. He filled a plastic gallon-jug, the water inside slightly discolored and gritty with sediment, and drank about 4 of them each day. Like everything else, it didn't kill him, but he didn't feel his best after drinking it either.

Tony and Sam ate the rice while Steve crammed down a nutrition bar and set to work chopping firewood. They never did get their hands on an axe, so he used the edge of his shield instead. Stabbing into each piece of loose wood the others dragged in from the forest, Steve had the strength to simply pry them apart.

He swore the wood was getting a little tougher each day.

xXxXxXx

Twelve days off the grid and the snow hadn't gone anywhere.

It only piled up more and more, now sitting at 10 inches. It was still falling this morning as Steve and Bucky brushed it off of the firepit. Tony and Sam hid indoors from the bitter wind until Steve managed to spark a strong enough flame to keep the blaze alive.

"If we take one of those tarps off the roof," suggested Tony, "we can bring the fire inside." Steve was skeptical.

"But if we let the elements in, what's the point?"

Tony shrugged. "That's how the Indians did it."

" _Native Americans_ ," Sam corrected him, then let out a ragged cough as he threw more sticks on the flames.

Steve looked at Sam with a wrinkle between his brows. "I don't like that cough," he said. Waving a dismissive hand, Sam assured him,

"The air's just dry. I'm fine." The last word barely left his lips before he coughed again, burying his face in his sleeve.

"Sam…" Steve began, then he fell silent and still. Tony quirked an eyebrow and queried,

"What—you hear something?"

"Shh," Steve hushed him, listening closely. All the others heard was the crackling fire and the wind in the trees, but Steve's keen ears picked up a droning noise far in the distance.

After a moment, Bucky craned his neck up towards the sky. The sound was getting closer and now he could hear it too. He froze for a moment, then cried, "Kill the fire!" before kicking big waves of snow onto the flames. Sam and Steve joined in without protest, but Tony had to ask,

"Woah, woah, why? What's going on?"

"It's a chopper," explained Steve. He pointed to the trailer. "Go inside—you too, Sam!" Without another word, Tony and Sam scrambled into the trailer, watching from the window as Steve and Bucky buried the firepit in snow once more, then they joined the others inside.

Between layers of gray clouds, snowfall, and the filthy window, it was nearly impossible to see anything. The helicopter was close enough now that even Sam and Tony could hear it, like a droning ghost hiding somewhere in the weather. They listened silently, unconsciously holding their breath as it passed overhead.

"MH-6M," Bucky murmured, deciphering by sound alone. "Observation model. Attack capabilities." Tony and Steve exchanged looks and Sam quickly added,

"American Military chopper. We call 'em 'Little Birds'. Must be important if they tossed one out in these conditions."

"Think they're looking for us?" asked Steve. Sam opened his mouth to speak and coughed instead, hacking away into his elbow as Steve rubbed his back.

"You sound like shit, Wilson," mentioned Tony. Sam ignored the comment and rasped,

"Military has no business with us. Not unless S.H.I.E.L.D or Hydra or whoever gave 'em incentive to."

The clouds shifted in the wind, exposing a black dot in the sky. Steve guided everyone away from the window and they sat in darkness against the back wall where kitchen cabinets used to be. The linoleum floor was coated with dirt and pine needles, chipped and peeling away.

They sat there and anxiously listened to the helicopter fade away until the only sound left was rustling branches. Steve turned to Bucky and asked,

"How'd you know what it was?"

Bucky's face blanked. He hesitated to answer because he wasn't even sure himself. Sometimes complex and obscure skillsets came to him as naturally as breathing.

"Training," he answered vaguely. Steve cocked his head, opened his mouth to ask—then shut it and decided he didn't really want to know.

xXxXxXx


	16. The Cause

**{ 16. The Cause }**

Fifteen days off the grid.

Steve dug through the footlocker by the front door. Two bunches of bananas, a tub of protein powder, nutrition bars, a plastic bag containing all their cash, bandages, alcohol, batteries, and candles. None of those things were going to help Sam. He sighed and closed it, turned back to the man lying on the floor behind him.

Sam's coughing had kept him awake for three days—and kept the others awake too. Only Tony managed to sleep by saturating himself with alcohol, waking up nauseous and irritable each afternoon. Sam visibly shivered in his sleeping bag, clad in a hat and several layers under his extra blankets.

The temperature only dropped, the snow continuing to pile up outside. Every once in a while, Steve had to sweep it off the roof so the tarps didn't collapse. Steve turned to the window, saw Tony still retching outside. The sun was barely up. It had been a rough night.

To Tony's left, Bucky was trying to start a fire in the pit. They were completely out of matches and their last lighter was apparently running out of fluid. He sparked the lighter over and over, desperately trying to light up the damp kindling. The wood was damp, all of their supplies were damp, everything was god damn damp and cold and caked with frost.

Steve picked up his shield and went outside, shielded the firepit from the wind. With his help, Bucky managed to light some tinder and nurse it into a decent flame. Steve sighed with relief and handed the shield over to him, then approached Tony as he leaned over with his palm against a tree trunk.

"Feeling any better?" Steve queried. He winced as he said it, already knowing the answer by the miserable look Tony gave him.

"If you hadn't left your stupid shit-water jug next to the clean stuff, this never would've happened…" Tony croaked. Steve furrowed his brow.

"I kind of expected you to use your _eyes_ and read the label…"

Tony glanced back at Steve's jug of creek water, half-frozen on the ground near the purified waters. "It was dark and I was drunk!" he argued, then turned to dry-heave.

"You're _always_ drunk, Tony! Maybe if you didn't waste all your daylight in a blackout, you could have avoided this! What if you stumble into the fire?"

"Pff, _what_ fire?"

A gust of wind plowed through the forest. Bucky held the shield steady, protecting the pitiful little flame. His long, greasy hair whipped in the breeze and he squinted as snowflakes splattered against his eyes. His handlers (friends?) were bickering. That was nothing new. But they were compromising their survival at a critical time and though Bucky knew they should be more attentive to this fire, it was not his place to tell them what to do.

He was only a tool. (That was permitted to speak.)

He was only a weapon. (That was permitted to feel.)

He was only an asset. (That was permitted to think.)

Nothing made sense anymore, not even a bit. Bucky was doing his best with the fractured, contradictory logic he'd been dealt since escaping the S.H.I.E.L.D facility. Sometimes he felt like two or three or a dozen different people all sharing the same body and none of them could agree on anything. It seemed like new aspects of himself were developing all the time. Some of them carried memories that others didn't. Some of them had imagination and nonsense thoughts while others operated on cold, hard logic.

Getting all these facets of himself to play nice and form a functional human was a challenge in itself. Now on top of it all, Bucky's handlers—the superiors who were supposed to oversee his order and function—were disorderly and dysfunctional themselves. His whole world was a mess and all Bucky could do was roll with the punches until they killed him.

He heard Tony warble at Steve over the howling wind, "…I didn't have to do any of this for you!" and Steve shouted back,

"I never forced you to! You _chose_ this, Tony!"

"I chose to help you bust your war-buddy out of the clanker—I _didn't_ choose to be separated from everyone I love! I didn't choose to be on the run for the rest of my life, and I didn't choose to freeze to death in fuckin' Sasquatch Country!"

Steve threw up his palms. "What did you really expect, Tony? That we could attack S.H.I.E.L.D and they'd just let it go, give you a slap on the wrist like everyone else does?" He sighed, dropped his tone and continued, "When you agreed to help Bucky, I told you we might be in this for the long haul. I was prepared to die for this cause and I assumed you were too."

" _Cause_? What cause?" Tony sneered. "Fuck off with that righteous bullshit, Rogers. Don't even pretend this is about anything other than yourself."

Steve turned slightly, slapping a palm over his hood as the wind threatened to rip it from his head. He queried, "What the hell are you talking about?"

Tony jerked his head towards Bucky, still trying to coax the fire to life. "Come on. Nobody goes through something like this to make a political statement. Nobody would give up everything— _everything_!—and go through hell like this unless it was about two things: love or money." He paused. "And I don't see Barnes coughing up Benjamins, do you?"

"What they did to Bucky wasn't right!" insisted Steve. "The people need to know that! They need to know that he's—he's not the monster they—"

"Oh, piss off!" Tony pushed himself off the tree and stood up straight, facing Steve straight on. "You damn well must have thought you couldn't live without him, because you threw everything else in your life in the trash for him! You're head-over-heels in _love_ with the guy, Rogers! Just admit that and find some peace with yourself!"

Bucky's eyes flicked over at the two. Steve's guard dropped, deflating his squared shoulders. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound would come out. Tony bulldozed over him and went on, "Look. I agreed to do this for you because I consider you my friend. One of my best. Top five, at least. And yeah, I thought maybe I could throw some money at a judge or two and we'd get off with a warning..."

He sighed, eyes rolling to the side. "But it's…Y-you were…Right. You were fuckin' right, okay? I underestimated the consequences and overestimated myself. And now," he gestured to the forest all around, "I'm in a position I was never prepared for. And, uh, honestly?" He shook his head, eyes drifting away from Steve. "I wasn't willing to go this far for you, Steve. I mean, you're my friend, but you're not…"

He swept a hand towards Bucky. "You're not _that_ to me. If I knew it would turn out like this, I never would've messed with S.H.I.E.L.D. Now if it were all for _Pepper_ , I'd do this a million times over!" A little smile crossed his face, but it was gone in an instant. "Because, you know, she's the love of my life. And, uh…I'll never see her again. I guess that's what I'm trying to say here."

Wind rustled the branches around them, whispering through the silence. Steve took in a deep breath, let it out slow through his nostrils. Finally, he nodded.

"I understand," he said solemnly. "I'm sorry, Tony. For everything."

Tony nodded too, glanced up at the blond man. "Thanks." He pressed his lips together, looking like he wanted to say more. He didn't. Bucky crouched next to the fire, wide eyes staring off into oblivion as his facets broke into a bloody war with eachother. His arm dropped and the shield went with it, slicing down into the snow. The little fire crackled in the wind, died out in a puff of smoke.

xXxXxXx

Sam's whole body quaked with each cough, barely allowing food and water to pass down his throat. Steve kneeled beside him with a cup of warm water and one of Bucky's bananas. Sam took the cup and tried to drink, sputtered half of the mouthful onto the floor.

Tony leaned on the wall nearby, cupping his gloved hands over his cold nose. Only Bucky was outside, still tending to the fire as far as they knew. Steve sighed, turned to Tony and said, "It's not getting better. He needs medicine." He tilted his head towards the footlocker. "We're low on supplies anyway…"

"You're asking me to be the new pack-mule," Tony deduced flatly. Steve swiped at his neck and replied,

"Uh, not necessarily…."

"I'm the only one who doesn't have my face on a damn cereal box," croaked Sam. He broke into another coughing fit, muffled it under his blanket.

"Doubt we still have those endorsements after all the shit we pulled," Tony muttered. "Whole world thinks we're criminals now." Steve rolled his eyes and said,

"Tony's most likely to get recognized—by people and facial recognition tech alike. Bucky probably wouldn't, but…"

He threw a glance out the window, where Bucky was standing motionless by the dead firepit. There was a lost and troubled look on his face. Steve sighed, "He's, uh, not quite ready for that. So that leaves me."

Sam muttered, "Probably carry twice what I can anyway…"

"You're gonna have to have a talk with him," Tony told Steve. "We all know what happens when you try to leave him behind."

Steve stepped outside and approached the fire pit. Bucky stood like a statue, head tilted down with a vacuous stare. The shield was still attached to his arm. Steve didn't like it—it was like the expression he wore when they first ripped him away from S.H.I.E.L.D. "Bucky," he began quietly, cautiously, "listen. Sam is really sick. I'm going to get supplies, but I need you to stay here."

The brunet blinked. Stormy-blue eyes flicked up at Steve as he continued, "You need to take care of Sam and Tony. Especially…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "If something happens and…Well, if I'm not back by noon, don't come looking for me. _I mean it_. I want you to listen to Sam, do as he says. He's smart. And Tony too, I guess. If it comes to that."

Bucky's brow sagged, eyes wide with anxiety. He stared back at Steve for what felt like forever. "Affirmative," he said. The word was strained. He swallowed a lump in his throat and Steve offered him a weak smile, patted his shoulder.

"Don't worry, Pal. Those are all really big _'if's_. I'll be back soon, okay?"

xXxXxXx

Two miles went by a lot slower in the snow. The trail was easier to lose, landmarks harder to see when everything was buried under whiteness. Steve wasn't as familiar with this trip as Sam was, tried not to get disoriented as he made his way to the little border-town.

A hoodie over a ballcap obscured his head, a gray scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth. It was cold enough to look inconspicuous, but all the backpacks and duffel bags hanging off of him might seem unusual. With the beard, the state of his clothes and the smell of him, he could pass as a vagrant. A very _disturbed_ vagrant, because no one in their right mind would choose to live in a cold, remote, wilderness like this. Not unless they were hiding from something—such as the whole entire world.

Steve saw lights in the distance and followed them onto a street. He passed some houses and ended up on the main drag of the town. There wasn't much to it; just a diner, a bank, two bars, and a grocery store with an adjacent gas station. The icy streets were barren except for children playing in the snow. Apparently school was cancelled.

There were only a few faces in the grocery store and most of them were eyeballing Steve like a shoplifter as he filled up his cart. He stuck to his list, carried only as much cash as he needed. He wiped out half of the banana display, filled a whole cardboard packing crate. Bucky went through twenty-one bananas per day and that was still not enough to sustain him. He was still getting thinner but Steve was in no position to turn that around just yet.

Sam wasn't wrong. Steve could carry a lot more than he could and maybe that would extend the time between trips, he thought. He walked out with three hundred pounds on his back and a crate of bananas in his hands. Most of the weight came from canned food and water jugs. If he had enough bags and it wouldn't draw too much suspicion, Steve would have loaded a few hundred more pounds on.

For now, he had everything he needed. Almost. On the way out of the store, he spotted a newspaper stand, forked over some quarters for a paper and learned it was already halfway through December. They had been on the run for about a month now.

How many more? Would the months become years before they could show their faces in the world?

Would those years become an eternity?

xXxXxXx

There was so much left to do. Steve didn't get a chance to settle down with his newspaper until the sun went down. Tony was passed out as usual, Sam in a merciful medicine-induced sleep. Steve lay on his belly in his sleeping bag, reading the paper by candlelight. Bucky sat nearby, "solving" the crossword page. In reality, he was drawing tiny pictures in each square—stars, spirals, hearts, flowers…

The paper was fat today. Chaos was brewing since a chunk of the Avengers went rogue and disappeared. Conspiracy theories were popping up, washed-up old villains coming out of the woodwork to wreak havoc, media outlets going nuts in the midst of it all.

The paper crinkled under Steve's tightening fingers. He read about terrorists and nefarious characters supposedly "inspired" by the Avengers' "treason". Copycat personalities setting out to achieve the infamy Captain America, Falcon, and Iron Man had built for themselves recently. Steve tossed the paper aside and scrubbed at his eyes. Who would ever _want_ to live this way?

Well, _he did_ , apparently. Because here he was, still freezing his ass off in the wilderness. Steve looked over at Bucky, sitting on the foot of the sleeping bag as he doodled on the crossword. He could surrender Bucky any time. Steve himself would probably get a slap on the wrist from the justice system—a few years in the clink at most. That wasn't his concern.

Aside from being on S.H.I.E.L.D's shit-list for the rest of his life, his real concern was what would happen to Bucky. He knew the public didn't see him the way he did. The media built up this Winter Soldier Boogeyman thing for too long, and as far as the courts were concerned: Bucky was an evil terrorist assassin at worst and criminally insane at best.

Either way, Bucky would face the rest of his life in confinement if Steve should surrender him. In prison or a mental institution, it didn't matter. After 70 years locked down by Hydra, Steve thought he deserved nothing short of total freedom.

Steve rolled on his side, pulled the blanket over his shoulder. He left the candle burning for Bucky and closed his eyes, muttered, "Good night, Buck." Bucky turned back to him, staring, pen frozen over the paper. All the facets of his personalities were grappling and colliding. Facets that were natural, artificial, programmed, taught and beat into him from unknown sources, over decades and decades.

The Soldier, the Sergeant, the Boy From Brooklyn, the Asset, the Survivalist, the Assassin, the Terrorist, the Prisoner…There were more, Bucky was sure, rattling around inside of him. And every action he took, every move he made, now he questioned which one was piloting it all as the memories crept back.

Steve was nearly asleep when he heard the rustle of the sleeping bag. Just Bucky, he reasoned, settling down on top to freeze all night like usual. Only this time, he felt a body slip in behind him, under the blankets and bag and all. Steve quietly turned his head to see the back of Bucky's head, dirty lank hair spilling over the folded shirt he used as a pillow.

They were back-to-back. Not the warmest position, but it was something. Steve realized that somehow, at some point, Bucky overcame another piece of his programming to do this. His whole body tensed, afraid to make a wrong move—scare Bucky away like a skittish rabbit on the trail.

This was progress. Despite the instability, the suicide attempts, the robotic behavior, Bucky was ultimately moving forward. Steve lie there in thought long after the candlelight vanished, thinking about the future in a whole new way.

Maybe they weren't sentenced to an eternity of fear. Maybe there would come a day when Bucky could speak on his own behalf, present himself as the person he really was rather than the machine he was conditioned to be. Then the world would know James Buchanan Barnes—not the Winter Soldier.

Steve had to question if they could survive this way until then.

xXxXxXx


End file.
